


Round Midnight

by domina (read2day)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-11 09:17:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 60,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7042198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/read2day/pseuds/domina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere in the middle of post-graduate work, Hermione has managed to stumble upon something that explains some odd behaviour of the imprisoned Voldemort. She & Snape work together to resolve the problem …</p><p>This was originally written in 2002; I am updating it (somewhat) and posting here as witchfics has now expired.  Ignores the epilogue, unsurprisingly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Quicksilver

**Author's Note:**

> (by the way – I don't own the characters etc. Just in case anyone was wondering)

_“Man and woman, who in natural fashion incarnate the two poles of the alchemical work - sulphur and quicksilver - can by their mutual love, when this is spiritually heightened and interiorized, develop that cosmic power, or power of the soul, which operates the alchemical dissolution and coagulation.”_ Buckhardt

* * *

_Quicksilver is female, whereas Sulphur is male. It is also in a sense androgynous, containing both the sun and the moon - the two poles of the process. Quicksilver is the most direct manifestation of the materia prima, the 'vital breath' which links the body-soul organism with the cosmic sea of life. It is the key to the whole, and in the spiritual sense of the prima agens is the initial and pervading spiritual influence which permeates ego-consciousness._

* * *

Severus Snape peered at the number on the door, almost indistinguishable against the dark wood as evening drew in. Barely reassured that he had the correct place, he knocked hard. The echo of his knuckles rapping on the oak door hung in the air for a moment, and he found himself improvising excuses in case he had, after all, reached the wrong house.

Snape wished, not for the first time, that the Ministry would make it compulsory for wizards' houses to be connected to the Floo network - particularly when they were, as this one was, in the middle of Muggle London.

Footsteps behind the door took away one of his hopes: that whoever lived here, if he had got the wrong house, was away. At the sound of locks being unfastened, Snape straightened up a little more and pushed a hand through his hair absently.

There were few things that him made nervous, but potentially dealing with Muggles would do it every time. He hated to look out of place; to feel ridiculous. The Muggle world was sufficiently foreign (despite, or perhaps because of, his childhood) to ensure that he ran that risk whenever he ventured into it. Reminders of the horrors of Voldemort's attitude to Muggles didn't help, either.

The door opened, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He had found the right address.

"Professor, please come in." 

Hermione Granger seemed unsurprised to find him on her doorstep; he wondered whether Arthur Weasley had succeeded in getting in contact with her today after all.

She gestured, waving him in as she held the door open and he nodded briefly before crossing into the room behind the door.

The room opened out before him and, for a moment, he simply looked around. McGonagall had mentioned that Miss Granger had acquired a flat in London a year or two earlier. He hadn't paid much attention to the gossip at the time but, even if he had, he doubted whether he would have imagined something like this.

The room was light and airy, the ceiling stretching above even his height by some way. It looked as though the room had been several rooms at one time, now formed into one. Surprisingly, there didn't appear to be any magical extensions.

At the far end of the room two enormous windows looked out over London; white shutters were folded back against the frame to let the light flood in. Between the windows a desk was pushed against the wall and covered in papers. A computer was open on the desk, and Snape resisted the urge to go and look at it; he had been curious about them for some time now, particularly since he had read details of some testing techniques using them in the _Journal of Biochemical and Molecular Toxicology_ \- the journal was one of a few Muggle publications he read regularly, refusing to dismiss the potential value of the work of any scientist, Muggle or wizard.

The wall to the left was covered in bookshelves, from floor to ceiling, and crammed with books. Some things never changed; he wondered whether Miss Granger was subconsciously trying to replicate Hogwarts' library in her own home.

"Feel free to go and have a look, Professor. Would you like some tea?" He looked back; she seemed amused that he had been distracted by the room. "Please, do go and help yourself. Milk and sugar?"

"Neither, thank you. I take it black," he answered.

As she turned, to what he now saw was a kitchen area, he was almost certain he heard her mutter "predictable" to herself. It wasn't worth calling her on; she was no longer his student - hadn't been his student for some years now, in fact - and he wasn't fool enough to believe that he could afford to alienate her before he'd even begun to talk over why he was here.

For a moment he watched her as she filled a kettle and reached into cupboards to pull out mugs and a small box; her movements were as efficient as his own. He wondered, not for the first time, just why she was researching potions. He was rarely surprised - he'd seen enough of the worst of humanity for that - but he had been more than surprised when McGonagall had told him that the Granger girl had applied, and been accepted, to read Alchemy at Amergin College, Oxford.

That Hermione Granger should be accepted to Oxford was no surprise to anyone, of course, although he was damned if he let her know that. Her choice of subject did startle him; she had spent her time at school working harder than anyone else would consider appropriate and she could certainly have read almost any subject - except Divination, not that such a charlatan subject was available at Oxford anyway. If he'd been asked, and he'd made certain that he wouldn't be, he would have assumed she would have chosen Arithmancy. She had had the logical mind needed for that; a natural mind for logic as well, unusual in a witch or wizard, as he'd found to his chagrin when she had deconstructed his carefully wrought puzzle guarding the Philosopher's Stone in her first year.

Snape realised that Miss Granger was watching him quietly as he stared at her; she was leaning against the kitchen cupboards, waiting for the kettle to boil apparently. He looked rapidly away and headed towards the bookshelves to stand in front of them, browsing vaguely.

Alchemy; his subject. The last subject he would have expected anyone to want to study. He never expected any student to follow from Potions classes on through to study Alchemy in higher education. Most were too clumsy to excel at the topic and, besides, his continuing self-appointed mission to inject backbone into the supposed cream of wizarding youth was usually enough to deter anyone from enjoying his classes.

Enjoy them she clearly had - the books he was gazing at were proof enough of that. Everything from standard Muggle texts on chemistry and biochemistry through to an apparently ancient translation of the Qinyuan chun. Mixed in among them was evidence of entertainment and a broader range of interests: novels by Nancy Mitford, Christianna Brand and more, psychology texts by Piaget, Horney and Jung, modern paperbacks and battered Penguin books. He recognised many from his own bookshelves.

He turned round, pulled from perusing the books by the realisation that Miss Granger was standing behind him. She held out a mug of tea to him; he took it gingerly, trying not to burn himself.

"Thank you." He spoke quietly, beginning to sort out again in his mind the conversation he'd mentally rehearsed on his way here. She had to be wondering why he was here; he was rather surprised she hadn't already asked the question. The last time he'd seen her, in a classroom at Hogwarts finally completing her final year, she had been the same rather pushy student she had always been. Her patiently waiting for him to get to the point was rather unnerving.

"You're welcome," she said, moving away to the sofas in the middle of the room. There were two, covered in a charcoal grey wool, near the massive fireplace.

Snape eyed the fireplace a little sourly; with something that size, the girl really had no excuse for not connecting it to the Floo network, he thought. He joined her, though, sitting on the opposite sofa and taking a sip of his tea. Gods, what did she do to this? It was strong enough to strip paint, or scour the desks in his classroom after a particularly bad lesson. No wonder she'd offered milk and sugar.

"So, Miss Granger ... why isn't this flat on the Floo network?" he asked suddenly. He winced inwardly at the abrupt apparent non-sequitur of an opening, although his face betrayed nothing.

She smiled wryly at him. "You can't have come all this way just to ask me that, surely? But, if you really want to know, I ... had some unexpected visitors some time ago. It seemed safer to remove myself from the network, to avoid a repetition."

"Yet you open the door without bothering to check who is standing on the other side?" He raised an eyebrow quizzically at her. It seemed too elementary a precaution to have missed; he glanced at the door to see whether it was enchanted to allow a view out but saw only the solid oak.

"There's a small lens in the door that lets me see who's standing outside, Professor. Now, is this a social call?" she prompted, understandably sceptical.

A social call - Snape wondered just how long it had been since he had paid anyone a social call; he snorted softly with amusement, curious as to whether Miss Granger actually meant to provoke him into one of his classroom displays of sarcasm. She had changed considerably, he thought idly. It seemed to be more of a change than could be accounted for merely by college life and growing up.

"Hardly that, Miss Granger. Clearly the Minister didn't manage to talk to you before you left work today."

She shook her head. "No, I haven't heard from Arthur in a while. Is there a problem, Professor?" she asked, settling against the back of the sofa and cradling her mug in her hands. It looked as though she expected the explanation to take some time.

"Not as such, no. Not yet. I need some assistance," Snape replied, reluctantly. This would be the hardest part of the conversation, simply admitting that he needed some help - he had never found it easy to receive, much less ask for, any kind of assistance. She leant forwards at his words, the familiar curiosity coming back into her face. An expression he recognised well, at last, having encountered it from her regularly in class - amongst other expressions such as anger and disdain. He had her attention now, certainly, no matter what the cost to his personal pride.

"It concerns Voldemort," he began. Hermione nodded as he continued. "It seems that the Ministry overlooked something when they imprisoned him," he said, unable and unwilling to keep the sneer from his voice. The fools' insistence that Voldemort should be imprisoned, rather than killed, would be responsible for more chaos than they could believe; Snape was sure of that. There was, of course, the question of whether he could in fact be killed; Voldemort had transformed so far from what was commonly accepted as human that Snape thought that any physical death would be of no real consequence. Still, it would satisfying to try.

"I have reason to believe that he's attempting to recreate the effect of the Elixir of Life by internal transmutation. He has had no time to work on creating the Philosopher's Stone, after failing to steal Flamel’s, and his skill at physical alchemy was never particularly advanced. I have - finally - convinced the Ministry that this is something that needs to be investigated," he said, bitterly.

The Ministry had been less than enthusiastic about addressing his concerns; there were very few witches or wizards who understood inner alchemy - any form of alchemy, come to that - well enough to comprehend what it was that he now thought Voldemort capable of. It did not help that he had only the reports of warders and guards to base his theory on. 

Voldemort was spending more and more time in a semi-catatonic state, apparently disengaging from reality for days on end. The Ministry, and others, saw this simply as a breakdown following his capture and incarceration in a cell in the permafrost below Antarctica. The cell itself was warded with an infinitely complex series of interlocking spells and charms, coded to open to specific individuals and no others. Layer upon layer of security had been developed to protect against Voldemort's escape: his physical escape.

Hermione had apparently followed the same line of reasoning that he had. "So you think he's looking for escape by a merging with the collective unconsciousness, rather than physically escaping? That would be ... possible, I suppose. The physical creation of the Philosopher's Stone is only confirmation of the achievement of the internal transformation, after all," she mused. She put her coffee on the floor and uncurled herself from the sofa, heading for the bookshelves and skimming a hand along a shelf until she found the book she was looking for.

"Why do you think he's trying to transmutate? Is there any suggestion he's following the usual meditation rituals?" she asked, looking back over her shoulder just long enough to ask the questions, before turning back to the book in her hand. Snape looked at her back with irritation, biting back a demand that she turn and look at him if she wanted an answer, rather than almost ignoring his presence in the room. He needed her help, though, so he swallowed the comment. He couldn't quite keep the sting out of his voice when he spoke, though.

"No, Miss Granger, it's pure intuition on my part. Yes, of course, there's evidence that he's following meditation rituals; the Ministry may chose not to believe it but I, personally, have had quite enough of the Ministry underestimating Voldemort's capabilities. His breathing pattern is recorded as changing from time to time, coinciding with the periods of catatonic behaviour so -"

"So you think he's grounding himself before and after working on the meditation. That would make sense," said Hermione, interrupting but still thumbing through the book, looking for something.

"Exactly, Miss Granger. Would you care to extrapolate the rest?" Snape bit the words out. He took it back; she hadn't changed since school, after all - she was still entirely too eager to let everyone else know just what she knew. At that moment, though, Hermione turned back to him.

"My apologies, Professor, I shouldn't have interrupted. Please, go on."

Snape hoped he didn't look as startled as he felt; he hadn't expected the apology, and was curious about the look of ... well, something like fear on her face when she had turned round. What had she been expecting? He took up the thought process again, though, leaving the question for later.

"Thank you. As you noted, he seems to be grounding himself for meditation. As Voldemort was not exactly given to self-examination, to my knowledge, before he was captured, I have some doubts that he has embraced spiritualism now. It would be far more in character for him to seek a way out; the idea that he might be aiming to recreate the effect of the Elixir occurred to me some time ago - his obsession with it before Flamel's Stone was destroyed suggested it - but there was no obvious reason for him to seek it. All it would achieve would be eternity in a cell. This, though, is why I need your assistance, Miss Granger."

He had surprised her - that much was clear. She looked at him, eyes wide and puzzled. "Now I don't follow you, Professor. What do I have to do with Voldemort?"

"You have nothing to do with Voldemort personally, that's obvious," he answered. "No, it's your work that seems connected and it's because of that that I need your help. I was reading your doctorate thesis on quantum alchemy last week - and for the delay, you have my apologies. I'm well aware that the deadline for my response to the examining board is not far away and, before you ask, what I am about to ask of you will have no bearing on my report back to the university on the thesis."

Hermione sat back down on the sofa as he spoke, watching him intently and clutching the book, her arms hugging it protectively. He wondered idly whether she was protecting the book or herself, using it as a shield. "You're the external examiner? Yes, of course you would be. Stupid of me not to have thought of that," she said almost to herself. "Go on," she added quietly, "what do you need my help for?"

"Your work on quantum alchemy, and its relevance to synchronicity in particular, make me think that perhaps immortality is not what Voldemort seeks. It would be a useful byproduct but not the end in itself. It seemed to me that - if I am reading your work correctly - there would be the potential there for him, once he has achieved the transmutation required, to force anyone to do anything that he wants, using synchronicity as a form of Imperio. Manipulating matter at the quantum level."

As he spoke, Hermione seemed to draw into her own thoughts, chewing absently on the side of her thumb. There was a long silence once he'd finished. Outside, evening gathered in and the flat was bathed in the apricot gold of sunset. Snape watched Hermione's hair turning bronze in the darkening light, admiring the colour without conscious thought, waiting for her to think through his reasoning and respond.

"Essentially, you mean that once he had reached the point where the effect of the Elixir could happen, he could also take the concept of synchroncity and use it to force physical actions in others or create events and, nowhere near the people affected, be the sole cause? That wasn't an effect I had counted on, I will admit, but I think I can see where you're taking it." She drew in a shuddering breath as Snape watched the consequences dawn on her. "Oh, damn; that would give him more power and control than he'd ever had - and he wouldn't need the apparatus of acolytes around him. No evidence that he was ever involved; no Death Eaters to betray him."

"Thank you, Miss Granger. I'm well aware of my actions," said Snape drily. "You needn't emphasise them."

Hermione started; Snape had been fairly certain that she hadn't meant to call attention to his own particular relationship with Voldemort at that moment but it had seemed a good way to bring her back from the chain of thought she was getting entangled in. She coloured but apparently decided to simply come back to the point she wanted to make.

"I never intended to create a weapon," she said.

"Neither did many others, Miss Granger. Einstein and Fermi amongst them. You are hardly alone and, I should point out, you did not create the weapon. You simply drew attention to the area; others with more devious minds saw the application. Well, so far one other - myself. Voldemort seems to be heading there under his own reasoning."

"Why do you believe he will succeed, Professor? No-one else has achieved the Elixir without the Stone as guidance." She sounded as though she was grasping for anything that would deny the impact of his words and her reasoning.

"I refuse to underestimate Voldemort, Miss Granger. Too many have. Besides, now you've brought this possibility into the open with your work on quantum alchemy, it's only a matter of time before someone tries this, even if I am wrong and Voldemort himself does not. Better to develop an effective defence against this now, before it's too late to build any defence at all."

Hermione was now looking at him with horror in her face; he regretted the events that meant he was the one to bring to her attention just what her discoveries could be used for but, in the end, someone undoubtedly would. He seemed to have been the unwitting volunteer for much unpleasant work, this was simply one more task to add to the tally. Another innocence lost, thanks to him. He drew himself up, standing again and pacing in front of the fireplace as Hermione dropped her head into her hands.

"Miss Granger, regret will not solve anything. If you had not found this, someone else would have done. If you had not found this, we may not have had any idea of what could be achieved if Voldemort does reach the transmutation - at least, not until it was far too late. Discovery of what is, after all, a weapon of mass destruction is - I grant you - not quite what Gryffindors are noted for but, then again Miss Granger, you never were a typical Gryffindor."

Hermione drew in a shuddering breath and let the book she still held drop to the table in front of her.

"Very well. I brought it to light, I'll have to bury it. How do you want me to help you?"

From his corner of the sofa, Snape watched Hermione gather herself together. He looked at her now, as though for the first time, as she sat upright and clearly resisted the temptation to slump in despair at what she had unwittingly created. She had grown up at college, he thought. Taller and slimmer than he remembered; a little too slim, as though she regularly forgot to eat – a condition he understood all too well. Her clothes hung slightly on her frame, clearly bought for someone a size or so larger; black jeans and a black sweater. He let his gaze wander over her with curiosity at the changes.

Her hair had either been tamed or had tamed itself as she grew older; it framed her face now in a slightly unkempt series of layers, rearranged as she shoved a hand through it to push away the layers from her face. She was pale; too much time in the library, she needed to get out more, Snape thought without recalling that the same should perhaps apply to him.

She looked up at him now, her question tinged with desperation. The distress was clear in her face; the shadows under her eyes seemed suddenly more pronounced and her jaw was set with a determination that would hurt later. "I need to help you," she said, reinforcing the question.

"And I need your help, Miss Granger - that is why I came here, after all," he pointed out, the drop of acid in his voice making it clear that he would not usually come asking for help. The dry comment had an added benefit; the tears he thought he saw shimmer in her eyes had vanished. He had too much to do - and too little inclination - to deal with tears; they were pointless waste of energy that would not resolve the problems they faced. Hermione swallowed and nodded.

"Then tell me how can I help you, Professor," she said simply. "I assume you've found something in my thesis that will help?"

"More or less," replied Snape. The truth was that he had only a limited amount of knowledge of the area she was studying; his work as external examiner was largely limited to ensuring that the thesis was internally consistent and logical, and that it had no errors that he was aware of. Therein lay the problems of examining most doctoral theses - the subject was, by definition, novel and so assessment was necessarily limited. Hermione's thesis, examining the potential for quantum alchemy - a synthesis of the Muggle science of quantum physics and the psychological elements of alchemy - was in a very different area to his own expertise in practical alchemy. His role as examiner had come about because he was known to have an interest in Muggle science, one of the few wizards with the understanding or inclination to study the subject.

"The key is to stop Voldemort; as he's working at the psychological level, that is almost certainly where we need to meet and defeat him. There isn't enough of him left alive to try to defeat physically." Snape's voice twisted with disgust for the creature that had had the wizarding world in terror for so many years. "Any chance we had to kill him was lost when Potter got in the way," he added. Hermione looked up again at the mention of Harry. "Do you see much of Potter these days?" asked Snape.

Hermione looked surprised at the question. "I didn't think you cared, Professor," she drawled, stretching slightly as though to ease cramped muscles as she sat on the edge of the sofa. "But no, I don't see that much of him. Or Ron, come to that. They have other interests, and the common bond of school has long since gone. I get letters every now and then but that's all - and probably rather more than you really wanted to know."

Snape wasn't sure whether or not to be pleased that he at least wouldn't run the risk of encountering Harry Potter whilst he worked with Hermione; he had little objection to the boy in reality, his fears that he would follow his father had turned out to be unfounded in the end. In the final battle, Potter hadn't indulged in the overly flashy heroics that Snape had half-expected. His mother's genes had clearly contributed some sense to the boy after all.

"You're right, Miss Granger, it is more than I needed to know." His drawl matched hers. "But then, I did ask so I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you answered. To go back to the issue that I came here to discuss, though -"

He stopped speaking abruptly as Hermione got up.

"Before we get into what I suspect is going to be a long and detailed conversation, I think I'll sort out some food. I don't think I've eaten since yesterday, and it's beginning to catch up with me." She yawned slightly. "I got caught up in some research I was doing online," she nodded towards the computer, "and lost track of time. Don't worry, I'll be fine once I've eaten and put on something a bit warmer. It's getting chilly in here."

Night had crept on whilst they spoke, and the windows at the end of the room were black now. As black as the London night ever got, acknowledged Snape, looking out into the sulphur glow that formed a halo over the capital and could be seen for miles. He looked back to Hermione; she was paler now than she had been when they started speaking, and he wondered just when she'd eaten yesterday. Probably breakfast, by the look of her.

"Go put on some warmer clothes, Miss Granger," he said, "I'll deal with dinner - assuming there is anything in the cupboards to eat?" he added wryly.

Hermione laughed. "You forget to eat and get food too?" she asked. He nodded. "Ah well, the joys of Hogwarts - the house-elves never seem to forget to shop. No house-elves here, but the local Waitrose does a fair impression. There'll be food in the cupboards and the last time I looked nothing was actually moving in the fridge. Thanks - just ... just find whatever you can and work with it. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Snape watched her cross the room to close the shutters, pulling them across the windows to shut out the night. She touched a switch on the wall and the room was suddenly softly lit, with washes of light flooding across the walls from the floor. Hermione disappeared down a small spiral staircase in a corner of the room, a feature which he hadn't noticed when he entered the room. He stood for a moment, taking in the room again in this different light and paying a little more attention than he had done at first.

The room was sparse; he wouldn't have expected that. Most wizards were pack rats, accumulating objects and clutter as they went. From his recollection of Muggles, they were little different. The acquisition of "things" was almost elevated to a religion, with little thought given to whether or not the "things" were in fact necessary. Hermione clearly did not subscribe to that philosophy - except perhaps with regard to books but, he had to admit, those were different. The result was a room that, whilst it looked vastly different, was not in fact dissimilar to his own. Solid, elegant furniture - her tastes ran to oak, rather than his preference for chestnut - books, and a few pictures on the wall that held the fireplace.

Snape wandered over the fireplace to light it; a swift motion with his wand, and the fire laid there was abruptly burning. He looked curiously at the small lumps of ... coal, perhaps. He wasn't sure; he preferred wood fires, although he knew that wizards in some areas preferred to use coal. In the end it was all the same, though, give or take a few millennia of fossilisation. The warmth given off was more than adequate, and he moved away slightly, looking at the pictures on the wall. A mixture of Muggle and wizard photographs - her parents, he presumed, looking at a static picture of a pleasantly boring looking couple. Potter and Weasley waved cheerfully from another photograph, then stopped abruptly when they realised who was looking at them. The photograph looked as though it had been taken when they were still at Hogwarts - from the size of them, he estimated the end of the sixth year.

The rest of the pictures on the wall were paintings; various styles, all originals - a mixture of abstracts and watercolours of pieces of architecture. Snape wondered whether Hermione had painted any of them, but none of those with any form of signature looked as though they bore her name. He paused for a moment in front of one picture; at first it seemed another abstract but then, as he stepped away, he suddenly realised it was a portrait of a large ginger cat. Hermione's familiar at school, he thought. The name escaped him; he looked around again, but there was no suggestion that she had a cat now. It had been fully-grown, from what he could remember, and cats did not have indefinite lives, even when part-Kneazle. On the whole, he thought wouldn't ask - pet owners tended to be rather irrational if the pet had died.

He suddenly realised he was hungry, and remembered what it was he was supposed to be doing. Pacing back across the room, his boot-heels suddenly loud on the wooden floor, he looked around the small kitchen area. Wooden cupboards ran across the wall, those on the floor topped with a granite worksurface. Another series of cupboards divided the kitchen area from the rest of the room, the worksurface on these extending back slightly into the room. A couple of stools in chrome and black leather were tucked under the extension. Given the lack of any dining table, Snape supposed this was where Hermione tended to eat.

He hesitated before opening the cupboards; this reminded him somehow of his potions storeroom, though he had no idea why. The faint feeling of trespass was irritating, and he reminded himself that she had actually agreed that he should do this. If the Floo network were connected, he would have summoned one of his house-elves to deal with this - that idea was rather less invasive than doing it himself. No Floo network meant he'd just have to deal with it. He liked cooking, that wasn't a problem. In fact, if he had felt more comfortable, he would have been looking forward to this - he rarely got the opportunity to cook, given the combination of house-elves at Hogwarts and the scarcity of his visits to his house.

Snape took a deep breath and reached for the closest cupboard door; opening it, he felt faintly foolish. Nothing more than a collection of pans - why he'd felt this might be private, he couldn't say. Not even his own kitchen was exactly sacrosanct. He hunted through the rest of the cupboards to find a few more pans, a pile of plates and a cupboard of mugs, before he found any food. Her comment came back to him - "the local Waitrose does a fair impression" - and wondered just who this Wait Rose was. Investigating the contents of the cupboard he realised it had to be the grocer; most of the food had "Waitrose" written on it somewhere. 

Several types of pasta, a couple of bags of rice, cans of various things - tomatoes, peppers, tuna - and a number of bottles of spices and dried herbs jostled with a couple of half-empty boxes of something called "breakfast bars". The shelf above held cereals and flour and a number of cans of chestnuts. Snape picked one of these up and looked at it curiously; he adored chestnuts, but the palaver of roasting and peeling them was something he could live without. These appeared to be a reasonable compromise for cooking with - he doubted whether they had the flavour necessary to eat just as they were. It looked as though Hermione shared his liking, given the half-dozen cans she had on the shelf.

Snape found himself wondering what Hermione was like now, as he looked through her things. The flat - well, the room, since that was all he'd seen - suggested that she'd retained her fascination with learning generally, rather than focussing exclusively on her university subject. The books spilling out of the shelves ranged across all subjects; there was even a small collection of cookery books sitting on the worksurface in front of him, he noted. Turning his head slightly, he read the titles. _Italian Food_ \- Elizabeth David; _How To Eat_ \- Nigella Lawson; _Appetite_ \- Nigel Slater; Cranks' Bible. The last one puzzled him, so he opened it to discover a book on vegetarian cooking. Of the others, he knew only Elizabeth David - he'd even met her once; she had been some relation of his mother, and he'd met her in London one day when he'd been here to have lunch with a distant cousin. An irascible old woman, but she lit up when she'd discovered they had visited many of the same places in France and Italy.

He put the book back and wondered what Hermione was doing; she'd taken longer than was strictly necessary just to change clothes. If she didn't appear soon, he supposed he would have to check on her. In the meantime, he had dinner to make. He checked the cupboard again, then pulled out one of the cans of chestnuts and a half-empty package of risotto rice, setting them on the worksurface and turning to find the icebox - no, fridge, that was the Muggle term for it. They were usually white, he recalled, scanning the area again. Nothing obvious ... he started on the rest of the cupboards; Miss Granger had mentioned a fridge so, no doubt, she had one around.

The second cupboard yielded results - the icebox was hidden behind the door. Snape peered in; the light was rather unforgiving but he noted that she was right, nothing was actually moving in there. Something wasn't far from independent life, though, judging by the rather acrid smell of mildew that greeted him. He pushed aside half-empty bottles of jam and mustard with fastidious fingers, searching for whatever it was that was quite so profoundly unpleasant. His sense of smell was keener than most; part genetics and part experience. A lifetime creating potions ensured that the he had could detect the subtlest of odours - the subtleties of potions often depended on it.

He found the offending object in the bottom of the icebox; once a lemon, now green and grey. The remaining lemons in the bag looked unaffected, so he washed those after throwing out the other. They went back into the icebox, and he carried on looking through the contents. There wasn't a lot more, in fact - an unopened bag of salad, a collection of apples, a heel of Parmesan cheese and a bottle of red wine. He blinked at the last item, and looked at it more closely. Zinfandel; perhaps it wasn't so surprising that she kept it in the icebox, he thought, but he wouldn't have chosen to do so. He thought for a moment, then took the wine and the cheese, together with an onion that he'd found hiding behind the lemons.

Hermione came up the stairs just as he had found a knife and chopping board, and had a pan already on the hob with a slick of olive oil heating in the bottom. Another pan was on a fast burner, heating water and a handful of dried herbs. Snape looked up; she had found a heavy grey sweater to pull on in place of the black one - or perhaps in addition to it, he couldn't tell. She smiled briefly at him and turned to the fire, toasting her feet slightly in front of it, one after the other. She had put on socks that seemed to match the sweater; thick and grey and looking remarkably comfortable, he thought.

"What are we having?" she asked, breaking into his concentration as he chopped the onion.

"Risotto, with chestnuts and red wine," he answered briefly.

“I take it you discovered my hoard of chestnuts, then?"

"No, Miss Granger, I didn't - I conjured them up from thin air." His voice now extremely dry, Snape tipped the onions into the pan with the olive oil and emptied the chestnuts on the chopping board instead. He detested small talk, convinced it was a waste of time and, besides, he was no good at it. He waited for a hurt response and was surprised by a chuckle instead.

"You're right of course, it was an obvious comment. I apologise - or did you conjure them out of thin air?"

He looked up; there was a grin on her face. "No, of course, you wouldn't. How could I forget - you don't like 'silly wand waving', do you? By the way, if we're going to be working together, I'd prefer it if you would call me Hermione. I would rather not feel as though I'm 11 years old again."

Snape held her gaze for a moment, trying not to smile at her mimicry of his annual speech to first years. She'd apparently learnt to hold her own over the last few years. It was going to be interesting to work with her.

"Very well, Hermione," he said. He waited for a short moment then added, "and you'd better call me Severus, then. Otherwise you will undoubtedly still feel 11 years old and I'm sure that would be ... inappropriate to the work we're doing." His tone was dry, but she smiled again.

"Thank you ... Severus." The short pause before she said his name suggested that it might take some time before she used it naturally; unsurprising, really, he thought. He turned his attention back to the work at hand.

"This is going to take a while to finish," he said, "why don't you start to tell me where you've got to with your research? I assume you've carried on with it since finishing your thesis?"

Hermione nodded and pulled one of the stools out from under the worktop, settling down before she started to speak.

****

Hermione would later describe the evening as one of the oddest she had ever had; at the time, though, it seemed perfectly reasonable to be sitting at the kitchen counter in her flat whilst her former Potions teacher created something mouth-watering from the meagre contents of her cupboards. That he had found anything at all to conjure a meal from was astonishing in itself, never mind that he managed to make it sound as though he had intended to make the risotto all along.

She had been surprised to see him when she had checked through the security lens, from habit, to see who was knocking at her door. A dozen possible reasons, each more unlikely than the last, were discarded as she unlocked and opened the door. By the time she faced him, though, Hermione had settled for a mundane greeting. Unless Snape had changed considerably since she had left school, she would find out soon enough why he was visiting her.

With that expectation in mind, she was rather bemused when Snape didn't immediately begin by discussing whatever it was he needed to see her for. He stared around the room as she shut the door, apparently fascinated by what he saw - both architecture and contents.

Hermione took the opportunity to look at him as he moved into the middle of the room; his Muggle clothing suited him rather well, she thought. Black, of course - a high-necked top, fine knit, and a black suit. The jacket was cut just slightly longer than usual, although not quite long enough to be a frock coat. Well polished, solid black boots with an unusual metal decoration on the sides. Hermione suppressed a smile - the boots looked as though they belonged to someone out in the American West, rather than to a professor of Potions currently absorbed in the contents of her bookcase here in West London. They were certainly less utilitarian than the plain dragon-hide boots she remembered on him from school.

He had done something to his hair and general appearance as well - nothing more than basic maintenance, thought Hermione, but it made him look more approachable. Presumably Voldemort's defeat had finally given him the freedom to think about more than simply survival.

It had taken a cup of tea - she'd forgotten to take the tea bag out of his mug in time to prevent his tea from stewing to the industrial strength she'd discovered a liking for at college - and more inconsequential conversation before he had come to the point. Once Snape had told her why he was there, though, she rather wished he had taken longer about it. Possibly even forever.

With her emphasis on the interaction between alchemy and physical science she had not paid much attention to the spiritual, or mental, processes involved in alchemy. She had studied them - three years as an undergraduate studying alchemy had ensured that - but somehow, perhaps because it was uncomfortably close to Divination or perhaps because she didn't quite believe that the spiritual processes of alchemy were as real as the physical, she had not considered the implications of her work on that level. There was no reason why she should; her thesis was complete as it stood, and the mental processes were outside the scope of quantum alchemy. Nonetheless, quantum alchemy was not outside the scope of spiritual alchemy; far from it.

She could have quite happily lived without knowing that she had defined a new weapon, albeit a wizarding weapon. To be able to attack by the mind alone … no words, no contact needed … Hermione shuddered. The attacker need not even be on the same continent as the attacked; there need be no evidence to lead to the attacker, or even an indication that an attack had taken place. Synchronicity would be all that was needed; influencing events at a quantum level would mean that no causality could ever be shown.

Hermione shuddered again, wrapping her arms around herself and nestling into the over-sized thick sweater that she pulled on earlier as a defence against the cold - internal and external. She had brought Snape up to date with her research; in truth, she had not got very much further with it. Most of her time over the last couple of months had been taken up with getting the thesis into a fit state for submission. A plate appeared in front of her now, heaped with a dark red risotto steaming gently. She looked up at Snape.

"Eat, Miss Granger - Hermione. There is still some wine left; would you like a glass?"

She nodded, dragging a fork through the risotto in front of her. Moments later Snape sat beside her, and handed her a glass half-filled with red wine. He served himself with risotto and wine and then, with a sideways glance at her, began to eat.

Hermione stopped redistributing her food on the plate and followed his example; the risotto was astonishing - the texture of the chestnuts brought out against the melting rice. The red wine, which gave it a deep red colour, had mellowed to a background softness.

They ate in silence for a few minutes; Hermione noticed, without paying much attention, that Snape ate almost as slowly as she did. She had endured a certain amount of teasing at school for it, but had never seen the need to bolt her food in the way that the others did. It had the side effect of ensuring that she hadn't struggled with her weight at any point either.

The flat was silent, disturbed only by the occasional chink of metal on china and the insistent ticking of a clock. Double glazing and some discrete charms blocked out the London background noise. Slowly, as she ate, Hermione began to unwind - the combination of hot food and wine on an empty stomach was surprisingly relaxing. Eventually she'd eaten enough; almost all the food on the plate, to her surprise. 

Next to her, Snape had just finished and was swirling the remains of his wine absently in the glass. Hermione found herself staring at his hands as he did so, watching the subtle flexing of his long fingers. When she looked up, it was to see him now looking at her with an indecipherable expression on his face. She wondered what he was thinking, and braced herself for one of his usual, dry, comments - but he said nothing.

Hermione had thought herself beyond being provoked by silence; it had been the favoured teaching method of one of her professors at college. A year of being criticised, for the half-considered thoughts and over-extrapolated theories that his silence had produced, had been enough to ensure that she used that silence to think, rather than simply speak.

Snape's silence unnerved her just enough to forget that training; the only comfort she later found on recollection was that he had previously seemed equally unnerved by her silence when he first entered her flat. The pause in which they simply looked at each other was broken by the first question that ran through her mind.

"Do you really hate students as much as you seemed to, or was it all an act to toughen us up?"

Hermione winced as she spoke, sure that this would bring the stinging comment it undoubtedly deserved. Snape simply quirked an eyebrow, though, and looked as though he wanted to laugh - probably at her discomfort.

"My attitude towards students was, and remains, - as you suggest - at least partly 'an act'." Hermione held her breath, waiting for him to continue; she was in any case almost speechless that he'd taken her question seriously. "However, it has little if anything to do with 'toughening' students. I observed, whilst I was at school, that the effective teachers were those who were either adored or feared. When I began teaching I did not - and do not imagine that I ever will have - the personality required to be adored, Miss Granger. So I make sure that they fear me. If, in consequence, they also hate me and believe me to hate them, so be it. It produces the results I desire; even Mr Longbottom, you will recall, passed his Potions examinations. Better that a student hates me and works hard if the alternative is indifference to both the teacher and the work."

Snape paused for a moment to finish the wine; Hermione thought he was as taken aback at answering her question as she was.

"My teaching style, however, is not what I came here to talk to you about. You said that you wanted to help me; is that still the case?"

Hermione nodded, surrendering to the slightly surreal atmosphere in which Snape came to her for help.

"Very well; what I plan to do will - I believe - enable us to stop Voldemort or, at least, to meet him in his chosen battleground," he said, nodding as Hermione suddenly sat upright, wondering whether he could possibly mean what she thought he meant. "Yes, Miss - Hermione," he corrected himself, apparently remembering her request, "we need to follow him, but faster if we are to have any hope of stopping this before it goes any further."

Snape stopped, looking mildly disgusted with himself, then continued. "There doesn't appear to be any way to say this without sounding melodramatic so, if you will, please excuse the melodrama. We need to create the Philosophers' Stone."

Hermione smiled - he was right, it did sound rather melodramatic. "And that's why you need my help. Interesting, Prof - Severus," Hermione corrected herself as well, his title still coming more easily to her mind than his name, "you're the first person to have realised the implications of my thesis in that regard. Certainly no-one else has mentioned that my conclusions mean I had to have worked out the process involved and, given the way academics seem incapable of keeping anything like that to themselves, I would be very surprised if someone had realised and not mentioned it to me."

Snape snorted, and Hermione's smile widened at the almost-laugh.

"Have you actually created the Stone?" he asked, his expression serious again. Hermione shook her head.

"No. I debated whether to try but - after all the fuss in my first year at Hogwarts - I decided that it wasn't strictly required for the research I was doing, and I would prefer to avoid the attention it would inevitably bring. It's caused enough fuss already."

"How has it caused a fuss?" asked Snape sharply. "You said that you did not believe anyone else had worked out the implications of your thesis." Hermione looked away, his eyes suddenly intense as he picked up on her comment.

"No-one has mentioned it to me ..." Hermione paused, gathering her thoughts together. She didn't want to over-state the issue, but perhaps it was better to tell someone. Snape was probably the best person to tell, in fact. If they had been in contact before, she might have discussed the matter with him when it had happened; he have a clearer idea of who - and what - might be involved.

"There have been some threats made," she continued. "About a month ago, I was working here when I had some unexpected visitors - it's why I've had the fireplace disconnected from the Floo network, and why you can't apparate into the flat itself. They wanted some information, and seemed to believe I either had, or knew where to find, the Stone. It wasn't clear whether they thought I had Flamel's Stone, and had had it since school, or whether they had somehow found out what I had been researching - it wouldn't be hard to find out what I've been working on."

"Did you recognise these ... visitors?" asked Snape, a note of urgency in his voice.

"No," replied Hermione, staring down at the worksurface as she remembered the incident, and the fear came washing back unexpectedly. "They were dressed in black, with silver masks covering their faces." She heard the soft intake of breath beside her, but continued. "Only one of them spoke, and it wasn't a voice I knew. Although I think I would know it again." The last comment was said almost in an undertone, but Snape obviously heard it.

"What did they do to you?" The question seemed almost pulled from him, as if he didn't want to know and didn't want to hear the answer but felt compelled to ask.

"The usual, I imagine."

"Did they-"

Hermione interrupted, shaking her head. She caught the edge of horror in Snape's expression as she looked up.

"Nothing irreparable - some hexes and a small dose of Crucio. I think it was more to encourage me to think about being more co-operative next time."

Hermione hesitated, not wanting to ask the next question. There seemed no way that it would not offend, but still she needed to ask.

"Do you know who ..?"

Now it was Snape's turn to shake his head; thankfully, he seemed not to mind the question.

"I haven't heard anything - I'm not quite persona grata with the most likely suspects, after all. Presumably not Lucius Malfoy - I would imagine you would know his voice, if only from having had to listen to his son for seven years," added Snape. "Their voices are rather similar. There's nothing to stop Lucius from using others, of course, and I would imagine that he would stop at little to obtain his own Philosophers' Stone. He would not let something as simple as Voldemort's capture keep him from pursuing his own ambitions. It is a pity that the Ministry proved quite so corruptible when it came to the Malfoy money; I would rather have seen Malfoy in Azkaban than many others,” he bit out.

Hermione watched Snape pace the room; he had pushed himself up from the kitchen bar when he started to consider who would have been most likely to attack her. Without his robes, he seemed more in proportion than she recollected - or perhaps it was simply her recollection that was faulty. He was tall, and lean, but less imposing than in her memory. Hermione almost laughed at herself; her memories were largely coloured by the impressions of an eleven year old girl - impressions that had remained throughout her time at Hogwarts. Now, at the age of twenty-five, she had spent almost as much time away from school as she had spent at school - the psychological distance was immense. Somewhere in those seven years the memories of a child had been filed away, almost irretrievably, and had little to do with the way she saw things now.

She hopped down from the stool and, stepping around Snape as he wandered back towards her from the windows, sat in a corner of one of the sofas, her legs drawn up under her. She balanced her glass, with the remaining wine, on the broad arm of the sofa, and decided to try to add her own interpretation of the incident.

"It wasn't Malfoy - I heard him speak a few times; he and Draco do sound alike. Whoever it was seemed to be self-directed, I didn't get the impression that he was doing it for someone else - he knew what he wanted and it seemed to be important to him personally that he get it. The other two with him appeared to be there to add muscle to his presence."

Snape stopped pacing as she spoke and stood in front of the fire, his legs slightly spread as he let the flames warm him. He stared into the fire, and Hermione wondered whether he'd even heard her.

"Are these coal?" he asked. Hermione blinked, then realised he was pointing into the fire and was presumably asking what it was that was burning. It seemed very unlike him to be distracted but, then again, she realised that she didn't really know him. The dark sarcasm of the classroom was, he had admitted, something of an exaggeration of his personality. All the same, she thought it wasn't perhaps characteristic for him to stray away from a subject.

"They're smokeless fuel," she answered. "A Muggle invention, they're supposed to produce fewer pollutants than wood or coal - those are forbidden within London, to try to reduce the pollution level in the city. I don't think it'll help us fight Voldemort, though." The last comment was said rather drily, hoping to provoke Snape back into something more familiar.

"Of course. I noticed them earlier and was curious; sometimes it's easier to seize on the mundane than to continue with a train of thought, particularly when the thoughts are circling unproductively," he said, surprising her with an explanation. "I'll make some enquiries and see whether anyone has heard of a rogue Death Eater working for himself; I believed all of them were accounted for. Still, it would not be the first time someone managed to elude the Aurors."

Hermione nodded, and picked up the glass of wine; she had almost knocked it over when she shifted to find a more comfortable position on the sofa. "I've taken the usual precautions, and added a few refinements, both here and at my lab in Oxford. If anything else happens, I'll let you know."

Snape turned around to look at her. "I would appreciate that," he said in a wry tone of voice. Hermione smiled into her glass.

"So, how do you want to go about making the Stone?" she asked, bring the conversation back to the point. "We could use my lab, or work at Hogwarts if you would prefer. I don't believe there will be a problem from the University's perspective in either case; I've submitted the thesis and don't need to show my face there again until the viva. All I've done since I finished the thesis has been theoretical - I've been working here more than there," she would have continued, but Snape held up a hand to interrupt her. Hermione flushed slightly, aware that she had been babbling rather. She was more tired than she had estimated. "Sorry," she added, "go on - had you planned anything?"

"Perhaps - given the interest being shown in the work by your ‘friends’,” replied Snape slowly, "we should consider making two Stones; one in Oxford and one at Hogwarts. From what I do know of the process, there are no particularly exotic ingredients which we would find difficult to procure enough of for two Stones. Or are there?" he asked. "You know the process better than I."

Hermione thought for a moment, considering the various steps involved, then shook her head and looked back up at him. "No, nothing very unusual. It's mostly time and effort, rather than esoteric elements. Do sit down," she added with mild exasperation, "you're too tall to look up at from here."

"I do beg your pardon, Miss Granger," came the reply as Snape folded himself onto the other sofa, "far be it from me to add to your discomfort." Hermione thought he sounded amused, but his expression gave nothing away. She smiled anyway.

"Sorry, I shouldn't order you around. Oxford has done terrible things to my manners around teachers, clearly," she added. "It was one of the hardest things to get used to, calling the tutors by their first names. I kept imagining Professor McGonagall's reaction if I had tried to call her Minerva!"

This time Snape did laugh, although the sound was unpractised. "Quite. I believe she would accept it now, but I would not have advised it whilst you were at school."

"It seems such a long time ago."

"Hogwarts?" he asked.

"Yes; so much to take in, I think I spent my time there with my head spinning as I tried to learn all I could about being a witch. At the time school seemed to go on forever, but now it's been as long again since I left and - I don't know quite what it is I'm trying to say." Hermione's voice tailed off, and she stared at the empty glass in her hand.

"I rather doubt that you stopped growing up when you left school, Hermione. The changes are simply different when you're older. And this conversation is getting maudlin, Miss Granger," he added briskly, "which means, since we have not had enough wine to be able to place the blame there, that I will leave before we both fall asleep."

Hermione punctuated his comment with a yawn, then laughed at herself.

"I think I've just proved your point, Severus." Odd, how using his name felt both strange and appropriate; working together as equals would take some time to get used to.

****

Snape left shortly afterwards; Hermione had seen him to the door, still yawning, and he had apparated from just outside the flat. Hermione had pointed out that the layout of the area was such that he could apparate to and from the front door without being observed by others. He supposed that constituted an invitation to return, beyond the agreement to make arrangements for the alchemical work by owl.

Hogwarts was no more than a silhouette against the darkness of the January night sky when he arrived back; the lights of the school were set, points of gold, in the dark granite of the walls and shimmered in a thousand reflections in the still lake. It was far too cold for anything to be inclined to disturb the night, with snow blanketing either side of the path that led from the school gates to the main entrance. The path itself was clear, swept or charmed clear, until Snape left the main drive to track his way across through the snow to a less-used door almost hidden in the folds and crags of the school walls. His feet were cold, despite the boots he wore, and he was grateful to quickly reach the relative warmth of his rooms.

A flick of his wand had the fire burning in the grate, the flames leaping and twisting around the pile of logs with the unmistaken scent of woodsmoke easing through the room with the heat. Snape dropped his jacket on the chair behind his desk, settling into one of the armchairs that faced the fire. A muttered command summoned coffee, a small mug that swiftly had ink-black stimulation coursing through him.

It had been an interesting evening; more so than he had expected. Hermione Granger had changed considerably since he had last seen her. An uncharitable thought had him wondering how much of that was because she was now free from Potter and Weasley's influence - or perhaps she had simply out-grown them once free from their undoubtedly suffocating presence.

The rogue Death Eaters were a problem; he would need to send owls to a number of people, although he thought it best to leave that for the morning. He would also certainly need to discuss his concerns with McGonagall - and he reminded himself to check with the Headmistress whether there were any particular approvals he needed to get before continuing with the experiment.

A soft knock sounded on the door; Snape looked round.

"Come in."

The door opened to admit McGonagall; Snape was not particularly surprised. He had spent too many years teaching at Hogwarts to be startled whenever the Headmistress showed a particularly adept sense of timing.

"Good evening, Severus," said the Headmistress. "I trust your meeting with Miss Granger was productive."


	2. Lead

_Lead - or Saturn - is the beginning of the lunar, ascending process of the 'lesser work', preparing the soul for the 'greater work'. This ascent is the blacking, or mortification, and is represented in physical form by ashes from the 'calcinatio' of the base metal (lead). This stage is represented by a raven, or a skull, and in spiritual terms involves a rebirth through 'death to the world'. This is a nox profunda, as the inner light has not yet developed. The 'lesser work', in spiritual terms, is the transmutation of time-dominated thought into a motionless and timeless consciousness._

* * *

The conversation with McGonagall had taken longer than Snape had anticipated; the retelling of the Death Eaters' attack had been detailed. The Headmistress’ questions suggested she was debating reviving the Order; this seemed, to Snape, somewhat premature. Useless as the Ministry might be, the Aurors generally maintained some degree of competence and it didn’t entirely seem necessary to draft in what were, in effect, amateur vigilantes. 

Snape’s plans to recreate the Philosopher's Stone with Miss Granger took relatively little time to discuss; he and the Headmistress had already spent several hours over the previous weeks dissecting the reports of Voldemort's behaviour, and McGonagall saw no alternative to his plans. 

The approval for him to work on the Stone in Hogwarts was freely given, with nothing more than a mild comment that she was sure Snape would have a set of rooms somewhere in the dungeons where he could hide away in peace and quiet. Snape almost smiled at the unusual subtleness of the Headmistress’ reminder of the need for absolute secrecy.

Sleep came slowly that night; the conversations and the coffee had taken their toll, no doubt, thought Snape as he sat in an armchair before the fire in his rooms. He had a book in his lap, Fulcanelli's _Le mystere des cathedrales_ ; if he couldn't sleep, he could at least do some useful work. At the moment, neither sleep nor work was forthcoming; Snape found himself staring at the flames of the fire, licking along the logs in the grate and spiralling upwards with the currents of air drawn from the room, twisting into nothingness before they reached the chimney. The sight was almost hypnotic, driving thought from his mind; all bar one thought which concerned him more than any other. Who had revived the Death Eaters?

Voldemort had been defeated - to the extent that he could be defeated - seven years earlier, and with that defeat had come the destruction of the Death Eater movement; Azakaban had been filled nearly to capacity with the Dark Lord's followers and those who sympathised with them. Some had escaped imprisonment - Lucius Malfoy in particular - but nothing had been heard from them and Snape did not consider them likely to resurrect the movement; without a figurehead such as Voldemort any such revival would be certain to fail. Malfoy and others undoubtedly mourned the passing of an era in which the Dark Arts could be practised with, if not quite impunity, only moderate secrecy but there were limits to their willingness to be open in such desires.

Names tumbled through his mind, each examined and discarded. In the end, as the fire sank slowly in the grate, the embers a dull red in the grey ashes of the wood, Snape had no more idea who could be responsible. All he had to show for the early morning thoughts was a sudden tiredness as sleep caught up with him. Dawn had not quite yet risen, but the sky was lightening softly in the east when Snape finally went to bed.

Sleep was short, as usual even now when his thoughts on sleeping and waking need not include the unspoken fear of a call from Voldemort. The Dark Mark remained on his arm; an embedded curse such as that would never be erased, but it was at least quiescent. There were full days now, seven years after the end, when Snape did not think of the Mark or the past; it had taken most of those seven years to begin to undo the twenty years of living in the long shadow of his own mistakes.

****

Snape awoke, as usual, when the sun rose high enough to stream across his face. He lay still for a few minutes, thinking through the tasks he would set himself for the day; he preferred to live with the rhythm of the days when possible - that said, this far north, only the summer allowed enough time to live that way. In winter, as now, only the holidays gave him such a luxury; termtime was a misery of dark mornings that only several cups of coffee made bearable and, even so, he never felt truly awake until the sun had actually risen. It amused him that students whispered - even now - theories that he was a vampire.

So many potions succeeded or failed by the time of day or the position of the sun that all Potions Masters lived by circadian rhythms to the extent that they could; what little he had read in the early hours of the morning suggested that creating the Philosopher's Stone required particularly close attention to the sidereal and circadian cycles.

That stray thought of the Stone was all it took to pull him from the warm comfort of the bed into the freezing morning. Winter was cold at Hogwarts, and the stone walls embraced that cold more easily than the heat of the fires. One of the house-elves had set the fire in the stove in the corner of the room sometime while he slept; probably Winky again, thought Snape idly. The elf had come across Snape in the aftermath of the final battle and, calling for assistance, had probably saved his life. For some reason which he had never quite established, she had bestowed Snape thereafter with the title of Master and - at least to Winky - he could do no wrong. A year of snapping comments, snide asides, and disgusted looks had not succeeded in dissuading the elf from her determination to ensure that Snape had every comfort he required and, in the end, Snape had found it simpler to come to an agreement with the elf over what he did - and most emphatically did not - require in terms of assistance.

Snape shivered rapidly through morning ablutions, pulling on his habitual robes and finally pausing for a moment in front of the stove to warm his hands before he settled at his desk to write the letters he had promised Miss Granger that he would send this morning.

The same letter went to each of the more reliable of his former contacts, asking whether they had heard anything unusual, taking pains to point out that he had heard only a rumour of a rogue Death Eater, that no-one had suggested that Voldemort was active again. He could be reasonably certain that they would not over-react; the Ministry, far more likely to panic, would be dealt with by Minerva. Snape certainly did not envy the Headmistress her inevitable involvement in politics.

His last letter was to Miss Granger; sometime before falling asleep last night he had decided to ask her to come to Hogwarts to discuss the processes they would be following and to advise him on equipment. He thought it would be a better use of their time, rather than owling to and fro. He suspected Minerva’s influence in his reasoning but could not remember the Headmistress specifically suggesting such a thing last night and - regardless of possible machinations - it would be more efficient. Snape chose his words with unusual care, conscious needing Miss Granger’s co-operation; it would not do to alienate her at this point.

Half an hour later he was back in his rooms, having made the trip to and from the Owlery as fast as possible. For the owls' convenience, the area was in one of the high towers that rose above the school - almost as far away from the dungeon and his rooms as it was possible to get.

The winter sun was higher now, giving the room a surprisingly ethereal look as the pale light picked its way across the wooden bookcases that lined the walls to a height well above his head, filled with all manner of books, and warmed the comfortably upholstered chairs that surrounded the stove in here; Winky had lit that as well, and the room was a welcome relief to the chill of the school corridors. In the holidays, without the bodies of several hundred students giving off heat, the thick walls of the school resisted even magical attempts to warm the place.

Snape retreated to his desk again, pulling out both the Fulcanelli and his ancient, battered, copy of Flamel's alchemical hieroglyphs. He flipped through the page, idly admiring the etchings of allegorical symbols that hid within them the secrets of the Stone. Flamel, together with his wife Perrenelle, had made at least one Philosopher's Stone; that one had been destroyed something like fourteen years ago, at the end of Miss Granger's first year in the school, he recalled. Flamel himself - and his wife - had died a few years later. Dumbledore had said at the time that they were rather relieved to relinquish their hold on life; they had existed to only protect the Stone from unscrupulous use, having made the Muggles believe them dead six hundred years earlier.

Snape added a note to the list of questions he was keeping; how had Flamel destroyed the Stone? If he could find anything in Dumbledore’s papers, now stored in the Restricted Section, that might add some information to Hermione's research. To destroy something like that would take more than casual effort.

The immediate tasks dealt with, Snape filled an Italian coffee maker with water and ground coffee and placed it on the stove; the fire had been burning long enough for the top to be blisteringly hot. He looked at the bookcase absently whilst he waited for the characteristic chatter of the last of the steam that would signal that the coffee was ready; he had found the Fulcanelli last night, but he was sure he had some other texts that might help. He had, however, done little work or research on the Philosopher's Stone since he was at college - lack of time, too many other things to take his attention - and he could not remember where he would have stored them.

Eventually the coffee sang through the room and Snape filled a mug, placing the pot on the flagstones beside the fire. The remaining coffee would keep warm there for some time; returning to his desk, he picked up the Fulcanelli and curled into one of the armchairs in front of the fire, balancing his coffee mug on the arm. He found his place and then took a sip from the mug, the smooth glaze against his mouth in contrast to the rough stoneware around which his fingers curled.

He had finished the pot and most of the book when a letter shot from the stove; the doors were left slightly open for exactly that reason. Snape picked up the letter from the floor, slitting it open by running his thumbnail through the wax seal that held it closed. The letter was from Miss Granger; he had picked one of the school's faster owls, and it had clearly lived up to its reputation. Snape was mildly curious as to how Hermione had managed to send a letter by Floo when her own fireplace was unconnected, but that curiosity was forgotten as he opened the letter. The response was short and to the point.

"No problem; apparating to Hogsmeade and expect to arrive mid-afternoon. - HG"

****

Hermione lowered the lid of the laptop on her desk; the fan slowed and the noise faded away into the silence of the flat. She looked blankly out of the window, not really seeing the grey landscape of London in winter; the same thoughts ran through her mind that had occupied her during the night. She had brought to light the means to create a weapon - and the only thing that could possibly save her was that she seemed to have also found the only possible way to counter it. But it would be a question of time - would they have enough time to create it, to defeat Voldemort? In her less anxious moments, Hermione remembered that Voldemort had also found the means to the weapon; it didn't provide all that much comfort to realise that she apparently had a similar thought process to one of the most dark wizards ever known.

Turning from the window, Hermione sighed. It was probably time to leave; she had told Snape she would be at Hogwarts this afternoon and it was - she checked her watch - half past two already. The morning had been taken up at her laboratory in Oxford, beginning preparations and checking she had both adequate ingredients and the necessary equipment. The Hogwarts owl had found her there, probably startling several students on the way as he found his way through the corridors. Hermione picked up the letter from the bench where it had dropped and had looked blankly at the owl, surprised to hear from Snape so quickly and wondering when he had sent the letter. She was answered when she told the owl that he need not wait for a reply; it circled the room and headed for the fireplace where it disappeared into the suddenly green flames.

Hermione frowned, trying to remember having been told that owls could use the Floo network; she had no recollection of ever having seen one do that. But then, she had never had a letter with this particular code for urgent on it; perhaps there was something in the code that ensured the owl would arrive more quickly than through regular flight. The question was dismissed to a mental ‘to check’ list as she opened the letter.

Snape's handwriting had not changed since she had been at school; it was distinctive, slashing black strokes in a surprisingly elegant - although barely readable - calligraphy. The message was short and she replied in kind, sending the message back via the network. She took swift pleasure in imagining the confusion on Snape's face - he knew her flat wasn't attached to the network, and would hardly be prepared for the letter to arrive that way.

Her preparation work done, she had returned home. Whilst she had the basic process of creating the Stone understood, there were some points where the instructions were confusing; she wanted to continue the research she had done into the area, to try to eliminate some of the confusion. The difficulty was not so much in the method required of the alchemist but in the description of some of the reactions - and, since the timing was critical, the better she understood what she should be looking for, the more likely they were to be successful.

Hermione stood, pushing her chair back from her desk and turning away from the window. She wondered whether she should pack anything but, in the end, decided all she really needed was her wand. If she found she needed to stay overnight at Hogwarts, she could always transfigure the things she needed.

A sudden burst of hunger reminded her that she had not eaten since last night; the memory of Snape cooking came to mind unexpectedly, and she smiled at the empty flat. There had been something oddly appropriate about watching him working in the kitchen; the same care and attention that he paid to potions-making was, unsurprisingly, applied when it came to cooking.

Hermione took a cereal bar from one of the kitchen cupboards on her way out of the flat, collected her coat from the back of the door and apparated from the dark corner near her front door.

A blink later she was standing at the gates to Hogwarts, shivering. She wrapped herself more fully in her coat, annoyed at forgetting that Hogwarts' winters were very much more severe than those in London. Munching the cereal bar, she picked her way carefully through the snow - the path had frozen over during the night and Hagrid appeared not to have had time to clear it so far today. Or perhaps it hadn’t been needed; they were out of term time at the moment, she thought, and maybe there was less call for such work with fewer people likely to be traipsing through the cold.

The walk up to the school was both familiar and strange; it felt as though she was viewing something through the wrong end of a telescope. Memories, seven years old, were now filtered through another seven years of experiences. The past is another country; they do things differently there. The quotation came easily to mind, although Hermione could not remember where she had read it, or even who had written it. It was, nonetheless, very apt now; walking through the snow to her past - and to her future.

Hermione wondered idly what had changed - if anything. Snape seemed to have changed; certainly the man she had dinner with last night was not the same man she had faced in a classroom for several hours a week over seven years. Or perhaps he was. The thought had her almost stumble in her tracks, sliding on the packed snow; there was no reason at all for Snape to behave in private as he did in public. It was the arrogance of childhood that painted all teachers with the veneer they wore in the classroom. Snape himself had admitted yesterday that his attitude to students was calculated to produce results - through fear, rather than adoration, although Hermione rather thought that most of the Slytherins had adored him. They had also feared him; the two were not mutually exclusive.

All the same, thought Hermione, it seemed as though Snape was different; seven years of peace time - and a peace time with Voldemort accounted for - undoubtedly would make some difference. The earlier so-called peace before Voldemort's revival in her first year had probably not made much impact - Voldemort had disappeared, and Snape was certainly pessimistic enough to assume that he would therefore return. Without certainty she was sure he would not relax.

Wondering now what her other teachers were like, away from their role as pedagogues, Hermione followed the path up towards the main door and had almost reached the steps when she heard her name called from somewhere over on the left. She looked around, searching for the person calling her - her name had echoed against the walls, and it wasn't immediately clear whose voice it was calling her, or where they were calling from.

A short way off, she spotted a silhouette in a gash of light in the wall; Snape was standing at an open door in the cliff-face that formed the foundations of the school. He waved her over and she realised that there was a track, barely visible in the snow, branching off from the main path, that would lead her in his direction.

Hermione was warmer by the time she reached Snape; the effort of keeping her feet in the snow and ice, in boots more designed for London than Scotland, had ensured she was breathing fast when he held the door open for her, and she slipped into the castle.

Standing now in a low, dark, corridor - not as cold as the weather outside but cold enough that she could still see her breath crystallise in the air - Hermione looked back as Snape closed the door. He was in robes, a more familiar figure than the man in Muggle black that had appeared at her flat last night. His face, though, was recognisable from last night and not from her school days. With the thoughts that had kept her company on the way from the gates still fresh in her mind, Hermione looked at him a little more critically than she had done the day before. She thought he looked ... less tired than she remembered; the lines in his face were less pronounced.

The voice was still as ascerbic though, she thought, as he lifted an eyebrow and spoke drily.

"Miss Granger, I did not invite you here to freeze in a corridor; I'm sure that whatever you're looking at is fascinating” he drawled. “Should I go and fetch my cloak so that we may examine it together without any danger of my needing a frostbite remedy?" Hermione knew she was looking slightly embarrassed; staring at him was hardly something she wanted to have been caught doing. She had thought herself beyond such distraction now, but apparently not. Being back at school had her rather off-balance.

She realised Snape was actually waiting for some response, so she shook her head. She thought he snorted, amused, at her confusion and looked heavenwards as though for guidance as he swept past her and led off down the corridor. Looking heavenwards in the dungeons was not, thought Hermione, a particularly edifying experience. More rock and little else. The weight of school was on her head - almost literally and certainly metaphorically.

She blinked, hurrying to keep up with Snape's rather longer legs, and realised she'd missed him starting to speak.

"... use that door when you need to come and go from the laboratories; it will save you from trailing through the hordes of students in termtime. It's spelled - the passwords are Scylla and Charybdis. And no, Miss Granger, I did not choose them."

Hermione grinned behind his back; she wondered whether they had, though, been chosen with him in mind, since the corridor apparently led to his rooms. Between a rock and a hard place - or, possibly, a six-headed dog; she suddenly remembered Fluffy and was hard-pressed not to giggle.

The corridor widened as they rounded a bend; the door behind was long since lost in the dark which overpowered the glowing lichen that lit the way. As they rounded a bend, Hermione felt a shiver of air and looked back to see a wall. The corridor was hidden from view by a charm that showed, instead, a dead end. Looking ahead, Hermione realised she knew the place; Harry and Ron had been insistent that there had to be a corridor somewhere here, in the days when they had tried to outdo the Marauders and the Weasley twins in their knowledge of the school secrets. They had never found it, yet it was veiled only with illusion - or, thought Hermione suddenly, it was keyed to specific individuals. She glanced back at the wall.

Snape must have noticed her interest because, without breaking stride, he spoke over his shoulder. "The charm is keyed to age, Miss Granger. You and your colleagues would not have been able to find it whilst you were at school; it will not permit access to anyone under the age of twenty. The door is similarly charmed; you need to be old enough and standing within six feet of the door for it to be visible to you."

Hermione did laugh then; a simple enough enhancement to the charm, but it had been enough to frustrate them. An additional wry comment reached her. "If it is any consolation, Miss Granger, the Weasley twins could never uncover this corridor either."

Snape's rooms were not far off, and Hermione was soon standing in front of the stove, rubbing her hands and trying to warm herself. She stared at the flames that leapt and played behind the doors of the stove, then almost jumped as she realised Snape was standing behind her.

"You will warm up faster - and more effectively - if you remove your coat, Miss Granger." How odd, to hear her mother's sentiments from him, of all people. Hermione nodded. Snape held out a hand and she shrugged out of her coat and handed it to him, then watched as he walked back to the door and hung the coat on an old tarnished hook fixed to the back of the door; he hung up his academic robes as well and, losing the patina of a teacher, became more the man she had met yesterday.

That renewed familiarity, and pleasure at his courtesy, made her smile. "I thought I asked you to call me Hermione," she said.

"As I recall, it was more in the nature of a command than a request," he replied, apparently smothering mild amusement. "I will ... endeavour to use your given name. It may take some time to overcome the habit of using a more formal title ... Hermione." Snape didn't seem particularly discomfited by the idea, to Hermione's relief. She had wondered whether he wanted to maintain the formality but it seemed to be nothing more than habit, as he had said. Time would tell.

She wrapped her arms around herself and turned back to the fire. "Thank you," she said, acknowledging his willingness to indulge her in this. Hermione couldn't quite say why it was important to her, only that it was. Perhaps it had something to do with their equality in this project - and, particularly in this setting, she would rather be treated as the person she was and not the child she had been. She pushed away the analysis and turned her attention back to her reason for being her. "Shall we begin to sort out what we need to do and where we need to do it?" she added.

Behind her, Snape was doing something with the papers on his desk - she could see his reflection in the mirror over the fireplace. He looked up. "I have an outline plan here; we should complete that this afternoon. Would you like some tea?"

Hermione nodded. "Would you like me to make it while you sort out ... whatever it is you're doing there?"

She was sure she saw Snape wince at the idea of her making tea, but he simply turned around and said smoothly, "No, no, that's quite alright. I am more familiar with the stove, after all." Hermione admired the way in which he had removed all trace of panic from his voice; she hadn't met anyone yet who hadn't flinched when she suggested making tea - not after she had made tea for them once, at least.

Finally beginning to warm up, she turned and looked at the rest of the room; it was large and airy - not entirely a typical dungeon. Large windows, presumably set into the cliffs on which the school was built, let in a hazy winter sunlight that eased over almost everything. The furniture was solid - dark wood, probably chestnut, she thought - with clean lines. Two sofas faced each other in front of the fireplace, upholstered in black damask that had faded with time and use; a dark red blanket was thrown over the arm of one of the sofas as though Snape was in the habit of falling asleep in this room. Bookcases took up most of the space on the walls not otherwise occupied with windows, doors and the fireplace. It looked ... comfortable; she had expected something rather spartan and, whilst the room would never be described as over-filled, the overall feeling of the room was of elegant comfort.

Hermione was vaguely aware of Snape beginning to make tea as she wandered over to the bookshelves; the books were crammed onto the shelves, some pushed into the spaces between the top of books and the shelf above. The sheer range of the subjects covered was breathtaking; Hermione thought herself to be eclectic in her reading tastes, but this was beyond anything she had achieved. Although, she thought, given the additional years she would perhaps approach this by the time she was Snape's age - whatever that actually was; she knew him to be about twenty years older than she was, although his age wasn’t entirely clear from the way he looked. The natural lifespan of witches and wizards was rather longer than that of Muggles, and aging was correspondingly slowed once past adolescence. Random thoughts spilled through Hermione's mind as she browsed the shelves, inspired by the books she saw.

She was concentrating on finding a particular book she needed as a source for some research, and which she had been unable to find anywhere, when a cup of tea appeared in front of her, attached to a long arm.

"Your tea, Hermione; are you looking for anything in particular?" asked Snape, nursing his own cup of tea in his hands once she had taken hers.

"I've been trying to find a copy of the original _Rosarium Philosophorum_ ,” replied Hermione. "I've got several translations and post-mediaeval prints of it, and they're all subtly different. I've heard rumours that the original version was still in existence. You've no more reason to have it than anyone else, I suppose, but you have enough books of that age here," she gestured to the quantity of books with ancient leather bindings, the titles barely visible in faded and scratched gilding, "that I thought I'd look anyway."

She looked at Snape as she finished speaking and saw him staring into the tea cup as though looking for inspiration or guidance; memories of Divination class came uneasily to mind, although he hadn't drunk enough of the tea for any leaves to be readable and it seemed unlikely that he would look for answers there in any case. Snape looked up after a moment.

"Do you need the book for this project we're planning?" he asked.

"It might be useful later," replied Hermione. "There are some things in the later stage which I think I have worked out from cross-referencing the various editions, but the source material would mean it wasn't an educated guess."

Snape nodded slowly.

"Then, Miss - Hermione, we had better factor a trip to Santiago into our plans."

"Chile or Spain?" asked Hermione.

"I'm surprised you need to ask," said Snape drily. "Latin American wizardry relies rather less on the science of alchemy, and Santiago is - after all - the patron saint of alchemists. Although it has always rather startled me that the Catholic Church provided a patron saint for those whom they persecuted with quite such vigour."

"I've found no references to a copy of the _Rosarium_ there," said Hermione, curiosity piqued. "How do you know about it?"

"I studied in Santiago for a short while," said Snape. "The library stacks there have books which no-one has looked at for centuries. I was curious." His tone was such that Hermione decided not to pursue her own curiosity; she had plenty of time to find out why he had kept the knowledge of such a find to himself.

"Now," he said, turned away from the bookcases and striding back over to the desk, "I would suggest that we make a start on that planning. You are here to discuss those plans, after all, not simply to stand and chatter idly."

Hermione quenched the desire to snap a reply and took a seat beside him; his earlier paper-rustling appeared to have been done to clear a space where the two of them could sit and work. The desk - by no means small - was covered in relatively tidy piles of paper and a few bottles with varying levels of potions in even more varied colours.

****

The planning went relatively quickly; Hermione clearly had done some work of her own in sorting out what needed to be done and when. Once the steps had been set out, scratched onto two pieces of parchment in his angular calligraphy and her more rounded scrawl, they had left Snape's rooms and headed for the room he had selected to use as their laboratory. Snape watched Hermione now as she deftly removed a series of vessels from the store-cupboard at the back of his personal laboratory.

"This one ... this one ... and this one. Those should do for the initial stages of the calcination; then of course you will need to decant the material into the egg and seal it." She pulled out the last glass vessel, large and egg-shaped. A Philosopher's Egg, to give the formal title. The egg was sealed when an experiment started; it was primarily used for experiments that required the gases they produced into order to self-heat and strengthen the mixture, It was also used for experiments which were profoundly poisonous, containing the gases and products until they could be safely handled.

Snape was always astonished that the Muggle alchemists had used such an object. There was no particular reason a wizard should not use it; a simple spell would seal the egg. For Muggles to use it, to have to struggle to seal it without the use of spells, was more surprising. He wondered how many had been poisoned over the centuries as they worked against time and a rising poison, blowing molten glass and prayers from their mouths.

"Right, that's it." Hermione's brisk tones cut through his thoughts. "You're set up; you've got all the ingredients?" Snape nodded. They had been through this once already, and he had confirmed he had everything she had listed.

"Then all we need to do is follow the instructions; once the material is prepared, the rest of it is just timing and patience. What do you plan to do once we have the Stones, to disable Voldemort?" she added, abruptly.

"Kill him." The answer came without thinking, flat and unequivocal. Hermione seemed taken aback. Snape supposed she would demand to know why, and was surprised by her answer.

"You're doing this for personal revenge, aren't you? Payback for however many years he abused your trust, and then simply abused you when he no longer had your trust, when you were working for Dumbledore. There's nothing particularly noble about this quest ..." Hermione's voice trailed off, thinking over the implications. Snape went cold, then remembered that he had the instructions now. Even if she backed out, he could continue - it would be more difficult without her help at some stages, but he could do it.

"My personal motives are not the issue. Voldemort is capable of more damage than you think possible, Miss Granger," the formal title was deliberate, distancing himself, "and without his death, no claim to have defeated him can ever be absolute."

Hermione was still, her face impassive as she spoke. "You forget, Professor, I have just as clear an idea of what Voldemort can do. Not your direct knowledge, true, but don't believe that I have a lesser idea of what he can do with this discovery than you do; if he succeeds, we will never know what he is capable of - there won't be time to find out before we are wiped out. Not just killed, but entirely removed from existence." Her eyes were bleak, drawn and pained. He wondered how much sleep she had managed last night, frightened by the consequences of Voldemort's actions and her own discoveries.

They were silent for a few minutes, each lost in thought, and then Hermione visibly pulled herself back together, to the project at hand.

"Ignore my ramblings," she said. "We need to get started if my rather apocalyptic nightmares of last night are going to be stopped."

The effort at lightness fell slightly flat, but Snape acknowledged the effort to move on; she had grown up, he thought. The usual Gryffindor bravery, but at least she seemed to have more direction than most of the products of her house.

****

Hermione winced, stretching as she straightened up from the lab bench. The egg was sealed, gas starting to well from the darkened material inside, and the fire below was set and spelled to the correct temperature. She was rather grateful that they need not rely on the original method of maintaining the appropriate heat - a horse manure pack would not have helped the atmosphere in the room. There was little wonder that the mediaeval alchemists had been shunned by society for being noxious individuals, given the combination of their heating materials and such ingredients as sulphur. And baths were not exactly commonplace in the heyday of alchemy.

She was drawn into dreams of a long hot bath; she was musing between cinnamon bath oil and a vanilla scented foam when Snape's voice disturbed the fantasy and she was drawn back to the dungeon laboratory, with its dust and assorted scents of student misery and mingled potions.

"We should head for Oxford now, before it gets too late."

Hermione reluctantly agreed; the bath fantasy had involved her old bathroom here at school. The school baths were enormous, with surrounds of various types which all had room for a stack of books and a mug of hot chocolate - and usually room for a curious cat to sit and stare as well. Hermione abruptly missed Crookshanks deeply as she remembered the way he would sit and simply watch her bathing, as though completely unable to comprehend why she would voluntarily immerse herself in water. He had died five years ago; he had been old when she had bought him and even half-Kneazle cats could not live forever. He had been clearly failing and, one day, had simply not woken up in the morning. Hermione had been heartbroken, even though she had steeled herself for it. She was, perhaps, grateful that he had lived long enough for her to settle at college, but she missed him intensely: she had been used to pouring out all the frustrations of the day into his fur, and to working with the soothing accompaniment of purring as he lay in sunshine.

The walk back through the snow was brisk; night had fallen - this far north, the dark came with late afternoon - and the snow was freezing into ice and crunching under their feet. There was no conversation; Hermione disliked small talk and she had no trouble believing that Snape shared that particular dislike. Only once did he speak, giving some indication of the direction of his thoughts as they walked.

"Do you have any expectation of how we shall use the Stone once it has been produced?"

Hermione thought for a moment.

"Probably something like Zen - an absolute sense of being in the moment; a universal moment. You just are and everything else also is," she said.

Snape nodded. "Like the archer, becoming one with the target so that the arrow hits the centre because it already is in the centre in that moment?"

Hermione blinked, but the moment of surprise had passed. Of course Snape would have read Zen literature - there was little indications in his bookshelves that there was anything he hadn't read.

"Exactly," she said.

They reached the gates, which swung slowly open as they approached. As they stood on the Hogsmeade side of the school walls, Hermione drew her coat more closely around her.

"Take my hand," she said. "There's a small alleyway which I use to apparate to and from; the shadows are persistent even at midday in the height of summer and it's easy to stroll in and out of without drawing attention."

"The cobbles near Oriel?" asked Snape. Hermione looked at him quizzically.

"You know the alleyway?"

"I've used it on occasion," was all that Snape replied, but he took her hand nonetheless. "It's been a while since I've had reason to be there, though."

****

Ten minutes later Snape and Hermione were working in the lab, testing the alembics that Hermione planned to use for the calcination process. Hermione had explained, as they made their way through college corridors, that the laboratory actually formed part of the Oriel grounds; it was loaned to Amergin for her use at present.

The work was underway, the material being processed for use, when they were joined by a tall man, about Hermione's age and almost red-headed enough to pass for a Weasley. Snape noticed Hermione wince and become apparently entirely absorbed in her work. An old boyfriend, he wondered?

The arrival had clearly been looking for her as he loped over, weaving between the dark wooden benches and neatly avoiding the equipment scattered about.

"Hermes! Prof told me I'd find you here. Just popped over for a visit, y'know, thought I'd come and have dinner at the old alma mater. Can't say I'm surprised to see you still here, of course," he said, with a joviality that set Snape's teeth on edge.

He looked at Hermione and said quietly, with a raised eyebrow, "Hermes?" Hermione shook her head quickly and looked despairingly as the newcomer seemed to notice Snape for the first time.

"Of course; we all thought it was terribly funny - she was always so interested in alchemy, of all things. Probably wanted to become rich, didn't you Hermes? So, Hermione and the Art of Hermes, don't you know? Hermione and Hermes," he explained carefully, as though to a child. Snape almost lost his temper, reining it in with some difficulty as the man continued talking.

"Don't believe we've met, by the way. I'm Carl, I had the delightful task of partnering Hermes here in the lab when we were at college. Jolly good fun it was too, wasn't it, Hermes? Once we got you sorted out, of course."

"Sorted out?" Snape couldn't help the question, loathe though he was to encourage the young puppy. If he said "of course" one more time, Snape was unsure he could be held answerable for the consequences. He was hard-pressed, though, to think what could have needed sorting out - Hermione had been, as far as he recalled, more than capable of the work.

"Oh yes, little Hermes here turned out fine though, didn't you?" Another rhetorical question, and he turned back to Snape. "Got rid of all that uptight obsession with learning - most off-putting for the rest of us. Not at all the thing of course," Snape ground his teeth together and kept silent only by extreme effort, "treating the place like school and having all the answers. This is Oxford, after all."

Snape nodded slowly, his patience - never substantial - long since gone. He thought he now understood the change in Hermione's personality since she had left school.

"Don't think it took more than a couple of months, did it?" the red-head continued. "Of course not - you were a sensible chap, Hermes. Thought you were going to cry in the tute once, y'know. Of course that must have been my imagination. Got to go, it's been excellent to see you again, Hermes - talk to you soon. Bye, old chap." The last was said to Snape as Hermione's former colleague disappeared back through the door.

Snape watched him go, several choice hexes running through his mind, with a mixture of fury and awe; the latter purely for the boy's ability to apparently talk without pausing for breath, the astonishing arrogance, and his total failure to notice that Hermione had not said a single word.

He turned now to look at Hermione; she was biting her lip, staring down at the bench, but he thought she looked suspiciously damp-eyed. He wasn't prepared to deal with tears if he could possibly avoid it.

"Charming young man," he drawled acidly. "I assume he commentated at Quidditch matches; I am certain I haven't heard anyone talk so fast and with so little purpose since Mr Jordan's last extravaganza of commentary."

The dry words had the intended effect; Hermione almost choked on a laugh and looked rather more composed. "Carl was never exactly subtle," she said. "Still, he was right, he and the others achieved in a couple of months what you couldn't do in seven years - shut me up in class" she added, with more than a touch of acid.

Snape felt compelled to defend himself, contrary to the habits of a lifetime. Perhaps it was the pain still glittering in her eyes, or the growing realisation that she had grown more like him than he was prepared to wish on anyone.

"I believe, Miss Granger, that such comments will always be crueller coming from your peers than from a teacher."

"Oh, they're painful enough from a teacher. No, no, not you," Hermione waved away his interruption, "you at least were rarely particularly personal in your attacks, and I wasn't the only one in class to be subjected to them."

Snape heard the words and the soft despair. What had she been subjected to at college? He couldn't remember precisely but he thought that she had been the only student from her year in Hogwarts to come to Amergin. Most went straight to work in one form or another; university education was generally for those genuinely interested in research and further learning, which made the boy's comments all the more confusing.

Snape said as much to Hermione, who shook her head. "Carl's not a wizard, he's a Muggle - I didn't have any problems with Amergin. Apart from anything else, I was the only person reading alchemy in my year. No, Carl was one of the physics students at Oriel."

Snape must have looked as uncomprehending as he felt, because Hermione went on to explain, putting down the retort stand she had been fiddling with. "I took a double degree - alchemy and physics. Only, Amergin doesn't offer the Muggle courses so I had to take it as an Oriel student. Amergin and Oriel have some connection going back centuries - it's why we share tutorial rooms, for example. The Muggle students don't have quite the same respect for learning - at least, not outwardly - as the Amergin undergraduates."

Snape nodded, then decided to change the subject by drawing Hermione's attention back to the preparations they had been working on when her former colleague had interrupted. He thought there was nothing he could say that would improve the situation.

****

Hermione suppressed a sigh of relief at Snape's unusual tact in dropping the conversation. Unfortunately she could not divert her memories so easily.

Carl had, in fact, been one of the less obnoxious members of the group of physicists at Oriel in her year; he was easily led and simply followed the crowd. They had all been wide-eyed and eager to learn at first but, within a week, a clique within the group had adapted forcefully to life at Oxford and had started to impose that adaptation on the others.

Hermione had not suffered more than the others, just for longer. She had remembered her first year at Hogwarts, half of it spent in tears from overheard comments until she had found Harry and Ron's friendship. Oriel seemed much the same, until she realised that nineteen year old undergraduates had more refined and crueller natures than children not yet at puberty; and this time it was made clear to her that there would be no-one to count as a friend.

In retrospect, Hermione realised that she had no need to rely on the physicists for friendship but the habits of school took longer to shake off than was comfortable; she was used to looking to those immediately around her for company and understanding. Those around her at Oriel mimicked her mercilessly, in and out of tutorials; bluntly told her to shut up or leave. 

The latter had been the most difficult to deal with - it had been her tutor who had, in no uncertain terms, told her that he did not appreciate her assistance in tutorials. He did not want - and would not accept - her input unless it was specifically requested; and he would not be requesting it so she may as well not bother. All this, in front of a group of her peers in a tutorial.

Hermione had seriously considered giving up the physics degree at that point; not even Snape had attacked her so personally, not singled her out for attention beyond that meted out to other students. Only the thought that she had never given up on anything - except Divination and that could never be counted - had kept her on the course.

She had learnt silence and to dissemble, to hide her reaction to comments and mimicry. Eventually that had earned her peace; she was largely ignored. She offered no comment unless specifically requested and, even there, learnt not to elaborate upon an answer. 

Alchemy kept her sane - in those tutorials she was free to be who she was; no need to hide both feelings and magic. Her tutors at Amergin encouraged discussion and exploration; she had tutorials alone, with no other students to whisper and later talk loudly at the other end of the table at dinner in Hall about her. She ate as little as possible at Oriel; just enough to stop the college offices from wondering what she did for food.

A double degree kept her largely in the library and the laboratory; her initial forays into Oxford's nightlife met with the same derision from her Oriel peers - despite earlier summer holidays at home, she was hopelessly unfamiliar with the details of Muggle popular culture.

Now, with more maturity and the clarity of hindsight, she could see that her peers had been as scared and lost as she; they had simply hidden it by attacks on those they perceived as weaker. She had been different, no matter how hard she tried to fit in, and that was enough to be seen as a weakness. Typical evolutionary behaviour, but no less difficult to endure for all that. They had learnt to blend in more quickly than she had, and followed the self-appointed leaders and arbiters of the acceptable. Her brand of individuality was not deemed appropriate, and eventually - when she had learnt to protect herself - she had been relegated to the ranks of the geeks and the nerds and finally ignored.

Hermione pulled herself from the morbidly depressing thoughts that Carl had brought to mind, and found Snape watching her curiously. She shrugged and turned her attention back to the equipment that they were setting up. After a moment she felt, rather than saw, Snape do the same. She relaxed, just slightly.

****

Snape stood, slowly, aware that his back was protesting his misuse of it; although he was accustomed to spending hours working with potions - either experimenting or maintaining the Infirmary stock - today had been more concentrated than usual and he had pushed himself further than usual; one preparation of the materials would have been demanding as it was, let alone two. The laboratory was dark, away from the lights than pooled across the benches where they had been working, and the windows were black with night.

He looked across to Hermione just as she tapped the Philosophers' Egg, in which they had made the preparation, with her wand. The glass sealed over perfectly, just as lazy tendrils of smoke began to ease from the lead mixture in the bottom of the vessel. Hermione heaved a sigh - presumably of relief - and Snape suddenly realised that she had to be tired; it had been a long day, and they had neither of them eaten since at least lunchtime. He had lost track of the time, but the idiot boy who had interrupted them had mentioned something about being there for dinner - and that had been some time ago.

He was about to suggest that they go and find somewhere to eat when Hermione looked up from the experiment at last.

"Shall we go and get something to eat?"

Snape nodded, and suggested a couple of places that he knew would be open here in Oxford, regardless of the time. Hermione shook her head.

"I'm too tired to go out; I have rooms in Amergin, and there are house elves who will be ecstatic if I actually allow them to do something more than make my bed."

"Still campaigning for S.P.E.W.?" asked Snape, remembering the campaign Miss Granger had started in her ... he'd forgotten what year, but it had been in her first few years of school. The staffroom had been highly amused - about once a decade, one of the Muggleborn students would start something similar, only for the protests to fade once they realised that the elves were intensely offended by the efforts to supposedly emancipate them. Miss Granger's campaign had lasted longer than most - he wondered whether she still held the views she had done at school.

Hermione laughed; the sound was rather tired, but nonetheless a laugh. "I'd forgotten about that - it all faded out before I left school. It's unrewarding work to try to liberate beings that flatly refuse to be liberated. No, I'm just not in college on a permanent basis, so I don't need the elves much - I have the rooms largely because I'm tutor to a couple of undergraduates and I need somewhere to hold the tutorials. Once a week I have to appear at dinner - it's expected than everyone takes their turn at High Table - and sometimes I'll stay over if the conversation has gone on for a long time. It's not difficult to get back to London, but it's less effort still to just go back to the rooms. They're not far from here; Amergin overlaps Oriel rather extensively - it's an interesting piece of manipulation."

Snape followed Hermione out of the laboratory; they locked and warded it securely as they left. The contents of the egg were better kept away from the curious.

Amergin was hidden in plain sight, rather like the Leaky Cauldron in London. If one knew where to look - and had the sight to see - the buildings were obvious. To the Muggle students, though, they were simply not there. Overlooked, ignored; that was a pity. Amergin was one of the oldest colleges in Oxford, built in the vernacular of golden sandstone that made the centre of the city glow in sunlight. The neat grass quadrangles echoed to the sound of running feet and quiet birdsong - except when the hour was struck, and every bell in Oxford rang in a cacophony out of time that echoed for endless minutes.

Hermione's rooms were - as she had promised - a few paces from the laboratory, through an ancient wooden door and up a stone staircase worn to a high shine and an alarming concavity by a thousand years of students' feet.

Her rooms themselves were, thought Snape, rather bland - it was clear she spent little time in here. Not spartan enough to be interesting - simply standard furniture, few books - but she did have a functioning fireplace and a house-elf appeared almost as soon as they had opened the door. Hermione's prediction of the reaction to a request for a meal was quite accurate; the elf left with their order, practically dancing with glee at the opportunity to do something for 'Professor Hermione'.

"They have never quite grasped the difference between graduate students and faculty," commented Hermione as the door swung closed. The comment was clearly nothing more than small talk, and Snape simply nodded as he picked one of the books from the shelf and opened it. Hermione had tucked herself into an armchair and sat, apparently watching him, as he skimmed through the contents.

Snape closed the book up sharply; not even the snap that sounded in the room as the pages slammed together jolted Miss Granger, he thought. She was more tired than she looked; but at that point, Hermione shook her head as though to clear it.

"Sorry," she said, "I was distracted by something - but it's not a problem after all."

Snape frowned faintly, wondering what she was talking about.

"I just thought something was odd about the preparation this time in Amergin, but then I remembered that the text I was thinking about was a bit ambiguous - the reaction was one of the alternatives described, so I think it's alright."

Snape nodded slowly, watching her now. The girl - young woman, really - in front of him was curled up in her seat, knees drawn up and her arms hugging them as if for warmth. She really needed to remember what the purpose of fires was, he thought. This was the second evening that she seemed to have felt the cold, and had not bothered to light the fire available.

He gave a rapid, efficient, flick of his own wand and the fireplace lit; flames leapt from the kindling and logs in the grate and warmth flared into the room. Hermione smiled, and now he really knew she was tired: the smile was simply a ghost of those she'd shared earlier.

For a long while they watched the fire, Hermione in her armchair and Snape standing in front of it. Abruptly, Snape spoke - the thoughts that had stolen through his mind found voice unexpected.

"I believed you had created the Stone already," he said. Hermione looked startled. "No, not now," he added, “I don't believe it now. It seemed the only way to account for the change in your personality, Hermione." She looked puzzled, so he elaborated. "You are very different from the child I taught. Whilst I expect some change as students grow up, yours has been a rather more extreme change than most. I will admit that my knowledge of your personality was primarily confined to those aspects you chose to display in my classroom but, on the whole, I have found that to be a reasonably accurate depiction of a student."

Hermione grinned at that, the tiredness leaving her expression for a moment. Snape wondered who she was thinking of; his thoughts must have shown in his face, because Hermione began to speak and add her own comments to his.

"You're probably right. Malfoy was a smug sneak at the best of times - and still is, no matter that he didn't truly follow Voldemort in the end. Harry just took the abuse" that was said with a sly look sideways to see his reaction. Snape kept his face impassive, "until pushed too far. Ron was hot-headed and too quick to react. And I was the know-it-all who just had to tell everyone. Don't deny it," she added, before Snape could say anything, "it was a love of learning but, now, I begin to appreciate that it may not have been the most comfortable experience, teaching me. I tutor a couple of undergraduate students and one of them does ... well, she reminds me of what I was. Very eager to learning, but awfully wearing after a while."

Hermione laughed, and Snape allowed a reluctant smile to be drawn from him.

"So," asked Hermione, "why don't you think I've created a Stone now?"

"Your charming and so-subtle former colleague," replied Snape sarcastically. "I believe he and his so-called friends probably had rather more to do with it than any amount of prayer and meditation." He hurried on, glossing over the point before it brought back more memories. He wasn't sure he wanted to have to deal with Hermione tired and in tears. "You haven't mentioned the meditation rituals - what reading I have done in this area indicates that there should be some form of meditation involved in the process of creating the Stone."

Snape wasn't anxious to begin meditation - he had never found introspection particularly helpful, although he could rarely avoid it. The thought of seeking it out had him steeling himself for the pain that would undoubtedly follow.

However, Hermione shook her head. "We shouldn't need any; the prayer and meditation that the mediaeval alchemists talked about seems to have been the equivalent of the focussing techniques that we were taught at school - they were designed to concentrate and focus any magical power of the alchemist on the process. It should be instinctual for us - and any decent Potions creator now. Things have changed since Flamel's day," she reminded Snape gently, "and nothing much has been written on the Philosopher's Stone since then. It's a pity, there are a lot of elements to the process that would be worth studying from a historical aspect. It's still taboo though - presumably because of the Elixir of Life."

Snape nodded, as she continued. "It would hardly be the conversion of lead to gold that wizards sought - any third year at Hogwarts could manage that transfiguration well enough to fool any Muggle. Although that's another thing that has changed since Flamel's day: transfiguration is a lot more sophisticated. We already play with matter at the quantum level, in transformations and potions such as polyjuice."

Snape thought over what she had said; none of was new to him, he had reached the same conclusions long ago. It did, however, add a highlight to his concern. It was that focus that the alchemists sought which Voldemort now also sought for himself; not to aid the creation of the Stone but to bring about the state of mind that the Stone itself created.

He was about to say as much to Hermione, when the door opened again and three house-elves entered the room.

Dinner was served.


	3. Tin

_Tin - or Jupiter - represents the process of sublimation, purifying the base metal to separate it from the mixture in which it exists. In spiritual terms, the soul's receptivity is developed. The soul is purified and the body freed from all darkness so that the soul may return to it to begin the 'greater work’._

* * *

The snow had melted, even in the grounds of Hogwarts, when the billowing smoke cleared within the eggs to reveal a dark misshapen mass of densest black. Owls made their way from both London and Hogwarts - the calcination was complete.

Hermione made her way to Hogwarts again when she received Snape's letter with its elegant scrawl, apparating to the gates that closed the school off from Hogsmeade. The village below appeared to be steaming gently, smoke rising from almost all the chimneys in the still day. The path up to school was muddy now, but the day was clear and bright with the crisp clarity of early spring. She hadn't seen Snape since January. There had been no need - there was little that needed to be done in the process at that point, other than keep an eye on progress. There wasn't a great deal of need now, either, but the Headmistress had asked for a progress report from them both.

Hermione had spent her free time in the Bodleian library, half hidden in one of the leather armchairs in Duke Humphries' Library high above the cobbles and tarmac of the Broad, with a succession of ancient leather bound tomes - and tomes they were. To call them books would have been to insult them. The librarians eyed her with dismay now, when she handed in yet another request for something to be retrieved from the stacks. Soon she would have to start requesting them over the Internet, to avoid the increasingly antagonistic looks. 

There were infinite treasures hidden in the stacks of the Bod, tucked away in countless miles of shelving below the serene grass quadrangles around the Radcliffe Camera and tunnelling under the traffic of the Broad. Hermione occasionally wondered whether the entire area would one day fold up and sink in on itself, caving into the excavated stores of the Bod and Blackwells bookshop on the opposite side of the Broad.

The library catalogues were a work of art - a work of art by Kandinsky. Or possibly Jackson Pollock. Inspired guesswork had proved the most effective system of retrieving the sort of books Hermione needed; most had not been looked at for hundreds of years, and the catalogues were unsurprisingly inadequate, although better than anyone could have expected. Hermione generally worked on the basis that, when she found something that looked interesting, she ordered up that book and the two on either side of it. She had found some truly astonishing material in that rather random method - some of it completely unmentioned in the catalogues, as far as she could tell.

Snape had finished examining her thesis in February; Hermione's doctoral supervisor had told her that the thesis was with the Board now, with Snape's comments and recommendation. Hermione told herself that she wasn't nervous, that all this research was just to fine-tune her knowledge of the process of making the Stone. So she lost herself in the words and allegorical images of centuries-dead alchemists all day, and headed back to London by apparation every night to fall asleep exhausted and wake the next day with a headache.

Each day, before dashing over the flagstone paths to the Bod, past the pepperpot of the Radcliffe Camera with its windows revealing tables of students, studying or snoozing, Hermione would check the progress of the egg in her lab; from the short notes she found near the fireplace in the lab when she arrived, Snape did the same at Hogwarts. She had recorded meticulously everything variable that she could think of - temperature (ambient and of the vessel), the colour of the smoke, the rate of swirl within the smoke, even the direction of the swirl. Perhaps, later, when everything had settled, she would write a paper on the subject.

Hermione was still rather uncomfortable about having the lab fireplace attached to the Floo network; the incident with the three goons who had attacked her had made her rather uneasy about the system. It was, though, undeniably easier to have access to that method of communication - either by letter or directly. At the end of each week, she and Severus - she was trying to get used to calling him that; for all her bravado when they had met at her flat, she was still not quite able to do so without half-expecting to be reprimanded for impertinence - would discuss progress, his face floating in the fire before her. It was an odd experience; her early Muggle upbringing meant that Hermione was still unable to take for granted the wizarding equivalent of video phones.

The conversations themselves were ... interesting. The process of creating the Stone was happening with no real interference needed, and very little variation, so they would quickly exhaust that topic. Hermione had assumed that Severus would disconnect at that point, the first time they had talked. Instead, to her surprise, he asked whether she was getting any research done. From that opening, what was supposed to be an update on progress became a wide-ranging discussion each week: it was largely academic but, over the weeks, more personal topics of conversation had crept in. She had a rather clear idea of the capabilities of the current crop of Potions students - not very flattering - and the chances of Slytherin winning the Quidditch cup this year, together with a growing awareness of Snape's astonishingly wide-ranging curiosity about the world. Wizard and Muggle, science or art, he didn't appear to make a distinction; he wanted to know it all.

Hermione found herself anticipating each Friday evening's update session, making a ritual of the interlude as she settled herself in an armchair with a cup of coffee and waited for the connection to be made.

****

Snape put down the book he had been holding, letting it drop to the small table next to his chair. A murmured spell brought the fire back to life from the embers it had sunk to whilst he read. It was a cold morning; Hermione would undoubtedly be chilled when she arrived.

He was, he thought, looking forward to this meeting; an odd sensation, particularly given who it was he was meeting. Then again, Hermione Granger was so far from the person she had been at school that a comparison could barely be made. The child who sat his classes and waved her hand for seven years was not the woman with whom he had conversations that quietly revealed an astonishing breadth of knowledge. Her peers at Oxford may have taken away the unchecked sharing of that knowledge, but clearly nothing could - thankfully - eliminate the curiosity and desire to learn. Each week had drawn more from her and, he supposed, from him; she challenged and stimulated his way of thinking - something his colleagues here rarely did, except perhaps Dumbledore in the past. But the Headmaster had usually challenged his morals, or his scruples, and rarely his intellect.

Snape could not quite imagine the Headmaster discussing the concept of Hamlet as the archetypal Hero; one of the discussions he had had with Hermione last week. He found himself noting ideas and concepts during the week, trying to remember them for Friday evenings when he would settle with a glass of whisky in a chair in front of the fire before making the connection through to Hermione's lab in Oxford. The conversations always started the same way, with an update on progress, but quickly moved beyond that in ever-increasing ripples.

Snape shook the recollections from his mind and looked out through the windows, his attention caught by the brilliant blue sky. The colour was startling, a dense wash in the middle of the near-monochrome of his rooms. White walls and chestnut furniture; only the multitude of colours on the spines of the books on his shelves added highlights - and even then, those were largely muted and faded with age.

A knock on the door drew him back from the blank near-meditation he had slipped into as he stared at a length of ivy hanging in front of the window, stirred and swayed by the breeze.

"Come in."

His tone was brusque; he was expecting Hermione but, as she had set no particular time to arrive and he was in a school of several hundred students and a not insignificant number of staff, he had no intention of encouraging conversation from any other visitor.

The door cracked open, the darkness of the corridor beyond swallowing any light that tried to creep through from his room.

"Severus?"

It was Hermione after all; Snape bit back the impatient sting that had formed on the tip of his tongue, instinctively ready to repel any student who dared to disturb his free time. He stood as she entered the room and watched, mildly amused, as she kicked off a pair of extremely muddy boots. Hermione looked up; his amusement must have been visible.

"I know, I know, cleaning is a lot easier here, I don't need to be so careful. Old habits aren't all that easy to break, though. My mother trained me well," she said, laughing.

Snape found himself asking a question he had wondered about but had not asked before; if it was the wrong thing to say it was liable to produce tears, and he frankly would rather face Voldemort again than deal with women's tears. Students' tears he was indifferent to, but courtesy demanded that women be dealt at least marginally more respect - it was harder to simply sneer.

"Where are your parents now?"

His sigh of relief when Hermione spoke without tears was palpable - if Hermione noticed, though, she gave no sign. She discarded layers as she spoke, hanging her coat and scarf on the hook behind the door; peeling her gloves off, she stuffed them in the pockets of her coat.

"They decided to stay in Australia - it's why I have the flat. They’ve retired: they sold their house and practice, and so had enough to buy a house in a small town out there and live comfortably. They offered me what was left over to buy myself something to live in. I think they assumed I'd buy something in Oxford, but I couldn't really face the idea of living there permanently. I see them occasionally - apparating saves a fortune on air fares."

She padded over to the fire, silent in the thick woollen socks she wore. She glanced up at Snape, who stood watching her, and grimaced.

"I'm babbling. Sorry. Did you manage to separate out the material into two pieces?"

Snape nodded, grateful that she had pulled the conversation back to the point; whilst he looked forward to the discussions they had, it was a clearly defined ritual in his life now and he wasn't particularly certain he needed it to spill out beyond the Friday evenings.

Hermione was warming her hands in front of the stove. "Any problems?" she asked. "I had to crank up the extractor rather heavily - the smoke was still lifting very slightly before I split the piece."

"Nothing difficult; the sublimation process appears already to have started. Do you want some tea?"

Hermione shook her head. "No - thank you. Did the Headmistress say what time she wanted to see us?"

A third voice spoke, quietly amused. "I believe now would be an opportune moment, Miss Granger. And, Severus, I would like some tea. Thank you."

The Headmistress had appeared in the room; Hermione looked startled but Snape just resisted the urge to shake his head as he looked over to the older woman.

"I am pleased to see you again, Miss Granger," said the Headmistress.

"Please, call me Hermione," she offered.

"Very well, Hermione - it has been a long time, has it not?"

Snape broke in before the reminiscing got underway. "As the Headmistress seems to be forsaking her usual hot toddy for tea, Miss Granger, are you certain you won't join us?" he asked. He was going to have to make tea anyway, making an additional cup would not precisely tax him. It would also give him something to do whilst the Headmistress gossiped.

And gossip she did - Snape had made tea and distributed the mugs, with no particular haste, before McGonagall had even begun to ask Hermione about her college days. Settling grimly into a chair by the fire, Snape checked the time and wondered whether they would make it to Oxford to continue the process today. He sipped his tea slowly, waiting for the Headmistress to clear her mind of curiosity over Hermione's university career; the ivy branch caught his attention again and he let his mind go blank as he once more watched it sway in the breeze.

"Severus?"

From the sound of the Headmistress’ voice, it wasn't the first time she had tried to get his attention. Snape looked round sharply.

"Yes?"

"My apologies, Severus. I have taken up entirely too much of Miss Granger - Hermione, I beg your pardon - Hermione's time and yours this afternoon with idle conversation. We have more pressing matters to discuss, I am aware."

Snape scowled; there were times when Snape wished he were not quite so transparent to the Headmistress, who had known him for far too many years. No matter how fraught the relationship had been from time to time, it was still the case that now, she had known him longer than anyone else. He rather suspected that she knew him better than he might like.

Aiming for distraction, Snape pulled the conversation back to the point of their meeting, well aware of the faint amusement on Hermione's face.

"What do the Ministry have to say for themselves over Voldemort now - did you get the reports?" he asked, the latter question asked urgently. The reports were supposed to be published weekly, to reassure whatever part of the wizarding population needed reassurance, with details of Voldemort’s condition. A not insignificant number of people were obviously hoping he would simply waste away. Last week's reports had not been published, leading to minor articles in the Daily Prophet speculating upon possible reasons. McGonagall had eventually found that the reason was rather prosaic - the official responsible for publication had been ill, and no-one had thought to publish the reports in his absence.

This time, though, the Headmistress nodded. "They were delivered a short while again, Severus. I did not bring them with me because they had little useful information and I wasn't entirely certain that I would find you here. Nothing appears to have changed over the past two weeks - the intervals of meditation seem to be constant, although of course the Ministry seem to prefer to describe his behaviour as periods of catatonia."

Snape snorted, and he noticed that Hermione seemed equally irritated by the Ministry's perpetual dressing-up of the situation. He could accept that few would understand what Voldemort might be doing, but his behaviour was hardly catatonic.

"Well," she said, "at least they are still recording his behaviour, and taking physical measurements."

"So far," muttered Snape, darkly.

Hermione apparently chose to ignore his pessimism and turned to the Headmistress, chewing her lower lip in concentration.

"The problem we have is that we can't tell whether he's succeeding with the meditation - are there any other measurements that the Ministry can take?"

"They can take all the measurements they chose to, and none of the numbers will tell us any more than we already know," grimaced Snape. "If he succeeds, if we are lucky we may know about it. It is undoubtedly more likely that we will simply not know - anything, ever again."

The tension in the room was wound tight; Minerva was quiet, and Snape thought she was observing the interaction between himself and Hermione. Hermione had looked momentarily upset, clearly aware - as he well knew - of the implications if Voldemort's plans succeeded. It was the uncertainty that was painful; not knowing when, and where, he would strike. If Snape was honest with himself, part of the difficulty was also the uncertainty of whether they were over-reacting, whether he was ascribing to Voldemort thoughts and ideas beyond anything the dark wizard was capable of contemplating, let alone achieving.

History, though, had taught that it was best not to underestimate. 

****

The conversation with the Headmistress had taken two cups of tea and a certain amount of patience, thought Hermione grimly as she pushed open the door to her laboratory. Snape followed her into the room - they had already set up the sublimation process at Hogwarts, now they would repeat the process here in Oxford. It was the weekend, so Snape was free from lessons and, as they had found in his laboratory at Hogwarts, the process was much easier when carried out by two people; the material simply seemed to flow better, so that the reaction began more smoothly and allowed enough time for the vessels to be sealed.

After a rather thorough grilling from Professor McGonagall on her movements since leaving school - even though she was certain the Headmistress knew exactly what Hermione had been doing – they had reviewed the reports on Voldemort; why no-one else thought his behaviour strange was probably the real mystery that needed to be solved - saving the wizarding world from its own naïveté might make things much easier. The Ministry seemed to be reverting to type; even though the Minister seemed to believe that Snape may have some grounds for suspicion the lower echelons were still being awkward about releasing reports on Voldemort's state. It had, apparently, taken the Headmistress some time to receive the latest reports, and then only after some negotiation with some over-promoted incompetent.

Hermione was aware that she was being unduly harsh, perhaps, but sometimes she simply wanted to shake them from complacency and inertia - even the Headmistress, although she suspected that her measured pace was probably a more appropriate response than her own. She clearly had a knack for ensuring things were done and not simply discussed - an undoubtedly carefully cultivated knack.

Professor McGonagall actually reminded her of one of her college tutors - an Amergin tutor, not one from Oriel - who had almost driven her insane with his repetition of points until she realised that, if she slowed down in her explanations and addressed issues more carefully, he would repeat nothing. As a teaching technique it was both maddening and effective - she was a far better researcher for it.

On the other side of the laboratory, Snape had lit the fireplace. Hermione smiled to herself, remembering her teenage conviction that Snape lived in perpetual cold - the dungeons were damp and the classroom had always been cold, so it had not been an unreasonable conclusion. By the time she had graduated, she understood that the potions classroom would have been intolerable at the end of a practical lesson - with a dozen or more fires lit under cauldrons - if it had been anything other than arctic. It would not, though, have been completely out of the question to heat the room for those lessons where they simply sat and listened - and shivered.

Before she could ask him why the classrooms had never been heated, Snape spoke. He had come up behind her and was looking over her shoulder at the blackened, burnt material that had resulted from the calcination.

"How many laboratories are there in this college?"

Hermione frowned before she realised that Snape was simply making small talk as they started to prepare a new vessel to take the material for sublimation. It was an odd notion, but she replied readily enough.

"Just this one - and it's not, strictly speaking, a laboratory. I imagine Oriel would be less than impressed by the knowledge that I am using it this way. The science labs are all north of here - most of the science departments are based up by the Parks. I got rather fit running or cycling between here and there in time for lectures and tutorials."

Snape nodded and they worked now in silence for a few minutes before Hermione noticed Snape shift, apparently uncomfortably, beside her. She spoke without turning round. "The men's room is back down the corridor - I can handle the rest of this on my own." 

She held her breath, waiting for a stinging rebuke for daring suggest that Snape might possibly be subject to normal bodily functions. She had no illusions that their academic camaraderie would extend beyond Friday evenings: whilst she found Snape's company surprisingly pleasant, he was too private for her to be able to simply treat him as human.

However, he surprised her by simply nodding and leaving the room. She looked round, watching him stride away, her brows lifted slightly in amazement before she turned back to the black material that she was carefully handling. The material had become like pitch during the calcination, burning first into powder and an aqueous solution and then coagulating to this oozing black mass. The sublimation required her to split the material into two, and then use one half to 'wash' the other in the heat of the fire in which the work would be carried out.

A little later, Hermione had sealed the glass closed again after adding the first of the imbibitions, when she heard the door open again, letting a small breeze blow through the room. She kept her eyes on the vessel in front of her, continuing with the remarks and notes she was taking on the colour and appearance of the smoke that swirled within it. The material had turned a brilliant violet, and the vapour curling into the glass was a diffuse series of similar shades.

"You're back quickly," she remarked, checking the temperature of the dampened fire below the experiment and recording it. She closed the book and looked round, wondering why Snape hadn't replied.

It wasn't Snape. Just inside the door stood the three figures in black whose interest in her she had tried to forget over the past few weeks; she had hoped that their threats were merely idle but the silver masks glittering in the low light of the laboratory made it very clear that such hopes had been futile. She tucked the notebook slowly away in her bag, never taking her eyes from them.

"You don't appear to have been expecting us, Hermione," said the central figure - the same one who had spoken when they had appeared in her flat. "Such a pity. I underestimated you; or perhaps you've grown complacent now that your former teacher is showing such an interest in your work. Still, I don't see him around here anywhere. Your complacency may be a little misplaced, shall we say?"

Hermione shivered; the voice was low and hoarse, as though using some charm to filter through it. Her mind, seizing any distraction as a means of denial started to recall which charm might fit the purpose. Probably some reverse of a soothing charm; she seemed to recall that Madam Pomfrey had a number of all-purpose charms that would make a sore throat only a memory. With an effort, Hermione cut off the train of thought and forced herself to deal with the present reality. She couldn't help the cliché that was the first thing she could think of to say, though.

"What do you want?"

"Oh, my dear, you know exactly what I want. Let's not play games, hmm? That drop of red that you have so ... selfishly ... failed to share with the rest of the world. All the riches of Araby, and that Elixir ... I'm sure you have more than enough. If you'd just share with the rest of us, your life would be so much easier."

The three figures had advanced into the room as he spoke and, as his voice dipped in warning at the end, Hermione was surrounded; the bench at her back, the chief persecutor in front of her and the other two at her sides.

"I don't have the Stone," she insisted.

"You can do better than that," he purred. "Little Miss Gryffindor, don't try to lie to me. You really wouldn't like the consequences."

Hermione's gaze flickered between the masks, casting about for something to say. He seemed fixated on the idea that she had the Stone now, not that she was creating it. Perhaps he did think that she had Flamel's Stone; she tested the theory.

"But I don't have it - Flamel destroyed it!" she protested. The figure shook his head slowly, confirming the theory as he spoke.

"Oh no, please don't think me stupid enough to believe that, Hermione. No-one would destroy such a thing; I've heard the fairy-tales that Dumbledore thought we’d swallow, the fool. Your excuses are a waste of time. Where is it?" The last words were hissed into Hermione's face, the mask only a few inches from her.

"Why do you think I have it?" she asked, desperately.

"Who else, Hermione? Dumbledore wouldn't have held on to it - he'd have been too obvious a suspect. The boy Potter was far too likely to be killed by the Dark Lord for it to be safe with him. And please don't suggest Weasley might have it; that family is as poor as it has ever been. He would surely have at least done something about the lamentably shabby robes they all wear. It's really rather obvious, Hermione; you are the only one who could possibly have it. Now, be a good girl and stop asking stupid questions. You really are far too intelligent to think I'm at all fooled by it - if you think I will allow you to delay me until help arrives then you are deluding yourself."

"I rather suspect," came a cold voice from the doorway, "that the delusion is all on your part, Pinale."

Snape stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the brighter lights of the corridor. The three figures turned quickly to face him; their first mistake. As the leader - Pinale? Snape had apparently recognised him - looked away, Hermione slid her wand from her sleeve, holding it close to her to minimise the chances of it being seen.

"Snape; so glad you could join us." The voice was as low as ever, but Hermione thought it sounded less certain than before; or perhaps she simply felt stronger, now that she was not alone in facing them.

"Dumbledore's little lapdog; what are you doing with Hermione here now, hmm? I will confess that I have been curious about your interest in this little Mudblood." Snape seemed to grow taller at the insult, then Hermione realised he had simply taken a step further into the room. 

Pinale laughed. "Of course, I overlooked that. You want the Stone for yourself, don't you Snape? Clever - but I rather think that direct action gives so much more immediate results. Still, you never were one for direct action; you did always refer to creep around in the shadows. You're too late on this one, Snape. I got here first; and this time, the hare will win the race."

"Pinale," drawled Snape, his voice bored, "what do you think I would want the Stone for? I already have more money than I can spend in several lifetimes - but, of course, you know that. You always seemed to take it rather personally. Perhaps because your father gambled your inheritance into nothing?" Pinale lunged forwards, but found himself facing Snape's wand and stopped abruptly. "As for eternal life; well, Pinale, I really can't say that I find this life more than barely tolerable. Why would I want to extend it?"

"Don't play the innocent, Severus," came the low voice again. "It won't work. I don't much care what your motives are; you can have the girl, but the Stone is mine!" The voice had risen steadily as he spoke, and the last word was almost a scream. 

Hermione became more certain than ever that this Pinale was unbalanced; he had seemed irrational enough in his reasoning as to why she would have the Stone but this ... this was obsession. Complete and, she suspected, unbreakably detailed obsession. He was unable to comprehend that others might have a different perspective, and saw only deceit and treachery in their words. She almost giggled as the irreverent thought came to mind that, perhaps, that was why his companions never spoke. Without words, they could not be considered to contradict him. The giggle caught her by surprise, and the part of her that had somehow remained detached from these events recognised incipient hysteria.

Hermione swallowed and forced herself into a further detachment, analysing the courses of action open to her; she tried to catch Snape's eye, to see what he had planned - if anything; but Snape's narrow stare never wavered from Pinale. Careful not to move too much or too abruptly, Hermione looked to left and right, gauging the positions of Pinale and his henchmen. If Pinale stepped forward just a fraction ...

Either fate was with her, or Snape had been paying her more attention than she realised. He stepped backwards, just enough to invite Pinale forwards and, as Pinale took the bait and moved, Hermione brought her wand up and yelled "Expelliarmus!" Two wands were snatched out of their owners' grasps; the henchmen turned, startled by the move, but Pinale had countered the spell faster than Hermione thought possible, and stood his ground, still facing Snape.

"You stupid little girl. Crucio."

Hermione had always heard that curse yelled, as though the emphasis enhanced the power that sabotaged the nervous system of the attacked. Spoken quietly and almost lazily, it seemed even more malevolent; the sight of Snape crumpling silently to the ground was equally shocking.

She ducked reflexively as Pinale turned on his heel and smoothly, without pausing, fired a hex at her. The bolt of light hurtled past her, brushing her arm, and hit a series of bottles behind her, glass shards exploding across the floor. Hermione realised with horror that the hex had almost grazed the vessel in which the sublimation was taking place. If it had not caught her arm, it almost certainly would have slammed into the smoke-filled glass.

"No!" she screamed, "If you hit that then we'll all be dead, it's poison!"

"Then you'll just have to make sure you give me no reason to try to incapacitate you, Hermione," laughed Pinale. "No matter how carefully I aim, I could always ... miss," he added. "And I'm shocked at you, little Gryffindor, brewing poisons? Tut tut. What would Minerva say?"

Hermione wasn't sure what unnerved her more - the sound of his voice or the detail in which he seemed to know her circumstances; but then, her schooldays were mostly a matter of public record, thanks to Harry. The most unnerving thing was still the sight of Snape, lying on the ground convulsing with the effects of Crucio.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked dully; the most important thing was to get them out of the laboratory before something happened. She could not afford a fight in here.

"At last; I thought you would never see sense. Just tell me where the Stone is; I'll be generous, Hermione. You can have all the gold you want from it once I have it. Of course, I don't think it appropriate to let you have the Elixir too. You're rather annoying, and I see no benefit in eternal life if I know you're sharing it."

"I ... I can't tell you, I'll have to show you," said Hermione nervously; would he fall for that? Once outside the laboratory she would have another chance - a less potentially fatal chance - to escape him.

Pinale considered her statement, apparently looking carefully at her. His mask almost seemed to show expressions.

"Very well, Hermione. Give back the wands you so rudely misappropriated first, then we can be on our way. Unfortunate that we can't apparate from here but that can't be helped. The corridor will have to do. Give me your wand."

Hermione handed over her wand, resisting the temptation to use it on him as she recognised how outnumbered she was; he took the other two wands as well and returned them to his acolytes. Pinale turned to lead from the room, stepped over Snape as he did so.

Another mistake; Snape apparently convulsed just as Pinale stepped over him, then snapped upright out of the convulsion. Hermione wasn't sure, given her vantage point, but she thought Snape had driven his shoulder straight into Pinale's groin. Pinale gave a hideous squeal and a moment later the laboratory was empty save for Snape and Hermione. The two henchmen had grabbed their incapacitated leader and fled through the door, apparating as soon as they were clear of the laboratory. Staring at the door, she thought that Pinale would not be particularly happy about that.

She shook her head and looked down; Snape had subsided back onto the floor, curled up, a characteristic after-effect of Crucio, she remembered. His obvious pain finally unfroze her from the stool at the bench and she crossed the laboratory to crouch by his side. Without her wand, she would be able to do little for him but she felt compelled to try to do something; casting about for something that would be of help, she put a hand to his shoulder. He was trembling, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His eyes were shut tightly, and his face was white with tension.

"Snape - Severus - is there anything I can do? I haven't got my wand now," she whispered, recalling from long-ago classes that Crucio heightened all senses and not wanting to hurt him further by talking too loudly. 

She was startled when, with an obvious effort, Snape pulled a hand out from where it was curled around his chest and held out her wand, shaking with the strain. 

****

Snape suppressed a groan as his arm involuntarily curled back across his chest once Hermione had taken her wand; he had barely managed to whisper _Expelliarmus_ as he aimed all the weight he could muster into Pinale's sensitivity. Unsubtle, unmagical, but profoundly effective. Unfortunately, he hadn't retrieved Pinale's own wand, but he had managed to get Hermione's.

With her wand in hand, Hermione apparently needed no further instruction from him and for the first time in his life he was grateful that she had been a Gryffindor know-it-all who had paid more attention that was strictly necessary in class. A series of murmured spells each numbed the searing jarring of his nerves, calmed the muscles twitching with mis-firing electrical impulses. The overwhelming awareness of touch, sound and sight lessened until he came back to himself, aching but no longer controlled by the pain, and found himself lying on the stone floor of the laboratory. He struggled to sit up and was stopped by Hermione's hand on his shoulder. He shook his head to clear it.

"Thank you," he said formally. "I would prefer to sit up now, if you don't mind." Hermione's hand dropped from his shoulder and he struggled upright until he sat, propped against the leg of one of the tables.

"Thank you." Hermione's voice was quiet. Snape was tired; too tired to be interested in trying to decipher her meaning.

"What for?" he asked. "Saving your skin or saving your wand?"

He saw Hermione flinch, and remembered that - whilst she had escaped a curse - she had still been through an uncomfortable experience. All the same, he wasn't in the mood to be delicate.

Apparently, neither was Hermione as she asked him bluntly: "Who is Pinale?"

"Other than a psychopath?" commented Snape. Hermione gestured impatiently, obviously not in the mood to indulge him. He recalled Death Eater meetings with some effort, his body still wanting to sleep off the effects of the curse. "He was one of Voldemort's lesser followers - the ones who came along for the ride and any pickings they could glean. Not in Malfoy's class, say, and unlikely to want to get their hands dirty."

"He seems to have changed his mind on that particular issue," muttered Hermione bitterly. Snape looked at her quickly, his neck protesting the sudden movement. She looked unhurt, but he asked anyway.

"Did he hit you with anything?"

Hermione shook her head. "Only fear - I was startled by his appearance; I thought you had returned so I didn't pay any attention to who was at the door. Then he fired off a hex - no, I don't know which one," she added as Snape opened his mouth to ask for details. "It nearly hit the work."

Snape felt himself go white as he looked over at the egg-shaped vessel. At this stage, with smoke churning through the sealed chamber in a swirling mass of black and blue that looked like a particularly unpleasant bruise, the smoke and liquid there were among the most powerful venoms an alchemist could brew. The smoke alone would probably have killed everyone with a hundred feet or so. He understood Hermione's reaction now, as she shook still with the aftermath.

They would need to triple the wards, he thought. Whatever protection they had put in place was ... he stopped, cold. He hadn't renewed the wards when he left earlier. Guilt and anger crashed on him, almost physical in their intensity. He groaned; Hermione looked sharply round, and he waved her attention away, berating himself the slip. She needed his apology.

"It was my fault," he admitted. Hermione looked startled. "I failed to renew the wards when I left," he said. Her eyes narrowed and he waited for the stream of anger and abuse that he deserved for such a failure. No such words came; instead, he saw Hermione shake her head.

"They renew automatically, Severus. It's nothing to do with you. He must have watched me, or found some other way through. You can stop blaming yourself, this one isn't your fault. You can't be responsible for everything," she added, astringently, before returning to her original question. "So, if Pinale was a waste of time as a Death Eater, why is he chasing me now?"

"Greed, I presume," said Snape tiredly. "It was the usual motivator for the lower ranks: Voldemort would promise them all the treasures of the world. What did he say to you? Pinale - what did he say?" he asked.

"He thinks I still have the Stone that Flamel created," answered Hermione.

"Why you?"

"That part didn't make a lot of sense - something about not believing that the Stone was really destroyed, and Ron not being rich enough to have it, Harry being too famous and Dumbledore having been too obvious. So it had to be me, apparently."

"Psychosis has its own internal logic system," commented Snape. "It doesn't have to make sense to us to make sense to him. At least he hasn't worked out what it is that we're working on. Did he say what he wanted the Stone for?" Snape wondered for a moment whether Voldemort had somehow got word to Pinale, to command him to try to recapture the Stone. Perhaps that meant that the mental process of alchemy wasn't going very well.

"Endless riches and eternal life. He offered me as much of the riches as I wanted, but didn't feel inclined to share eternal life. Why wasn't he captured?" Hermione's mind was working around the subject, and Snape was obscurely reassured to see her return to normal, the fear abated for now.

"He disappeared; he wasn't particularly important, so he was mostly overlooked - by both sides. I had heard rumours that he had been killed in the final battle. Apparently not, but he certainly wasn't worth sending the remaining Aurors off to find out whether it was true."

Snape leant his head back against the table, his eyes closing in tiredness; he was jolted awake again as Hermione shook him.

"You can't go to sleep here, you'll never be able to move in the morning. Come on, let's get out of here." She pulled him upright; Snape kept grimly silent, aware that if he opened his mouth he would scream with the pain that shot through him.

****

Hermione pulled Snape to his feet; he was ridiculously tense. They stumbled together across the laboratory, Snape leaning heavily on her. Fortunately, there was no-one in the corridor outside the laboratory so she took the opportunity to apparate from there, rather than from the dark alleyway nearby that she usually used.

They appeared again in the shadows near her front door. Hermione fumbled for her key, then propped Snape against the door as she opened the door. She half-led, half-hauled him to one of the sofas and returned to close, lock and ward the door. She leaned back against the door once it was locked, looking unseeingly across the room and forcing herself to begin to relax.

Beyond the windows, London was dark again. Hermione realised with a start that she had completely lost track of time; this early in March, nightfall only meant that it was at least late afternoon. She turned her wrist over, looking at her watch; it had stopped - either she had fallen on it, or one of Pinale's hexes had come closer than she realised.

Hermione forced herself to move from the door, to check both the time and Snape. A clock on the bookcase told her it was evening, still early but very much evening. Snape was asleep; she watched him for a moment with curiosity. He slept neatly, his breathing quiet but just harsh enough to betray the curse he had taken. Hermione yawned, suddenly extremely tired. She half-stumbled down the stairs, catching herself on the railing at least once - she would have a bruise on her hip in the morning, and probably be unable to account for it. She pulled a couple of blankets from a cupboard, soft and warm dark red wool, and headed back upstairs.

Once upstairs she draped one of the blankets over Snape; he moved slightly but didn't wake. Hermione debated removing his shoes but decided that it was probably better not to disturb him. Yawning again, she closed the shutters over the windows and dowsed most of the lights so that only one light was left, dimly lighting a corner of the room. She returned to the sofas and lay on the one facing Snape, vaguely thinking that he ought not be left alone. For a moment, Hermione wondered whether she should have let him go to sleep, but then her sleep-addled mind remembered that sleep was a problem with concussion; this was something rather different.

She kicked off her boots again, remembering her babbling comments about manners and her parents that morning. It seemed weeks ago, not hours. With a snort of amusement that stretched into yet another yawn, Hermione dragged the remaining blanket over herself. She fell asleep within moments.

****

Next morning, Hermione woke to the smell of coffee and warm bread. She blinked the sleep from her eyes and stretched, wondering where the smell was coming from. She sat up abruptly when she remembered the events of the day before, and looked at the sofa in front of her. Snape had clearly woken first; there was only the blanket on the cushions now, neatly folded and left in a corner. The shutters had been thrown open, and pale early morning light flooded the room.

A noise from the kitchen area made her raise her head again, her mind still slightly foggy with sleep.

"Coffee?"

Snape was standing behind the counter, looking at her. Hermione almost scowled at the look of superior amusement on his face; she was tired and never particularly enthusiastic about waking up. That he could stand there, clearly awake and - relatively - cheerful when he had spent the night sleeping off a curse on a sofa that was took short for him to stretch out on, was more than she was prepared to deal with just then. She nodded curtly and growled "in a minute" as she headed back downstairs to change and wash in an effort to wake up properly.

Hermione looked at her reflection in the mirror as she splashed cold water on her face. It was no particular surprise that Snape had been suppressing a smile, she thought; her face was lined with creases from lying on the sofa cushions, and her hair ... well, at least it was easier to deal with the rats' nest it had snarled into overnight than it had been to deal with the frizz that she had endured as a child. Maturity had a lot of advantages.

It also had a lot of disadvantages, she thought wryly as she changed into a clean pair of jeans and pulled an old rugby shirt over her head, remembering just why it was that Snape was making coffee in her kitchen at an obscenely early hour. Death Eaters: insane Death Eaters. All that brand of lunacy was supposed to have gone from her life in the few horrific hours of the final battle; instead, seven years later, she was again dodging hexes and curses from a man hiding behind a silver mask and spending her free time working on a way to kill Voldemort whilst the Ministry persisted with the official view that there was no problem.

Plus ça change, plus ç'est la même chose.

Going back upstairs, Hermione paused at the top step of the spiral staircase. Life, she thought, was infinitely more complicated than anything the imagination could construct; certainly more complicated than anything her imagination could construct. She rather thought it would take something along the lines of an infinite number of monkeys and an infinite number of typewriters before she could have imagined the scene in front of her, just a few weeks ago.

Snape was leaning against her kitchen counter, drinking coffee from one of the stoneware mugs that her mother had bought her as a housewarming present, reading a copy of _Ars Alchemica_ that he had no doubt unearthed from the collection on her bookshelves. A plate of toast was cooling on the counter next to him.

Just then he looked up.

"Hmm," he snorted. "Definitely coffee, Miss Granger. It would be most helpful if you were actually awake, we have a number of things that we need to discuss. When you have managed to wake up, of course." His voice was tinged with the usual dry sarcasm that Hermione remembered all too well from school.

She rubbed her temples, taking a deep breath before replying. He no longer inspired fear, but it was probably not a good thing to flare in anger.

"Severus," she said, finally, looking straight at him, "I'm not at school now, you are not my teacher, and you do still need my assistance," she continued, pointedly. "Could you please just dispense with the oh-so-helpful comments? It's not necessary and I'm too tired to put up with them - and I might add that a little gratitude for not leaving you to deal with Crucio on your own would not go amiss. And yes," she added, "coffee would be nice, thank you."

Hermione dropped on the nearest sofa and let her head rest against the cushions behind her. She could just see the clock on the bookcase and, even upside down, it confirmed that it really was an obscene hour of the morning. Suddenly, a mug appeared in her line of sight, steaming gently.

"One coffee, and one apology." The words were silky soft, and Hermione could find nothing but sincerity in the tone. It was almost enough to undo her; when Snape spoke again, it was all she could do not to shiver. "I am sorry, Hermione. You are, of course, right - the comments were unnecessary. I would be in your debt if you could blame them on yesterday's excitement."

Hermione snorted as she sat up again, and took the mug from him. She looked up at him and quirked an eyebrow. "Yesterday's excitement?" Then she smiled. "Alright," she said, "if you insist." Anything to stop him using that particular tone of voice. It was one thing to look forward to conversations with Snape for their intellectual content; it was far too early in the morning to contemplate looking forward to them merely for the pleasure of listening to his voice. 

****

Snape sat on the sofa opposite Hermione and watched her drink her coffee with single-minded concentration. The difference between practical and theoretical alchemists, he thought: he had woken with the first light of dawn, even with the shutters closed, whilst she clearly needed at least more time if not also caffeine to become functional. He was about to mention the idea to her, as he would have done in one of their Friday evening discussions, when he abruptly realised that she would not perhaps interpret his theory entirely dispassionately right now. It could, he supposed, be construed as criticism, although he didn't intend it that way.

For the sake of peace, Snape stored the concept for discussion at a later date and time. He concentrated instead on taking inventory of himself; it seemed that he had come through yesterday's 'excitement' - as he had described it to Hermione - with a minimum of the aches and bruises that usually accompanied Crucio. That was probably as much to do with Hermione's prompt action as Pinale's inadequacies as a wizard - although all the inadequacy in the world would not have saved them if he had actually hit the glass vessel in which the Stone was being created.

The thought of Pinale reminded him that he had more to do than simply sit in Hermione's flat, comfortable though it was. He stood; Hermione looked up, apparently startled from her thoughts by his movement.

"I should go," he said. "I think it best if you accompany me; we should have gone to Hogwarts last night."

From the puzzled look on Hermione's face, Snape realised that most of his thought processes had been so internalised that his intent was not particularly clear. He expanded on his comments.

"Pinale will try again; this flat - for all your prowess with wards - is not secure enough. He cannot, however, get through to Hogwarts - if you return with me, you will be safe from his attacks until we can track him down. I would suggest that you pack anything you need."

He could see Hermione gathering strength for a rebellion; when she spoke it took a moment before he realised she was agreeing with him, not disputing his statement. That agreement was all he needed to realise just how badly she had been affected by the events in the laboratory. The bravado when she had faced him over his perpetual sarcasm this morning was missing now; whilst he was sure that much of it had stemmed from her sheer exasperation with him this morning, at least some of it was innate. She was Gryffindor; bravado was part of the house entry requirements.

Packing did not take long; she was neat and methodical, closing up the flat before they left. Those things which she deemed necessary - mercifully little - had been charmed to fit into a small bag which she now carried with her.

They apparated first to Oxford; Hermione insisted on re-checking the laboratory and renewing the wards. Snape added some variations of his own, to strengthen the protection. Hermione collected a file of notes.

"Research notes?" asked Snape. They had been almost entirely silent since leaving the flat; the only words exchanged had been to deal with the wards. The file looked thick, though, and Snape hadn't thought that she would have found that much new material in just a few weeks.

Hermione shook her head. "Notes for my viva," she replied. "I ought to review them, it can't be long before I'm summoned for it." Snape nodded; no other reply seemed appropriate. He had recommended that the thesis be accepted for her doctorate, but the decision was not his alone and it would go against everything he believed for him to tell her what he had told the Board. She would find out soon enough.

They apparated again, this time to Hogwarts. The path up to the school was as muddy as it had been yesterday; everything had changed but the world still looked the same.

For now.


	4. Silver

_Silver - the Moon - is the culmination of the 'lesser work', and completes the white process. The potentialities of the soul are fully developed and united. The spiritualisation of the body is complete, and the purity of the soul regained. This is the outermost limit of 'solution', to be followed in the 'greater work' by coagulation. At this stage, sublimated quicksilver is so white that it looks like snow. It has a fine crystalline lustre and a perfume so sweet that it resembles nothing on earth._

* * *

Snape almost fell into his quarters with relief; Hermione had been shown to a set of guest quarters in the East Tower, away from house affiliations and curious stares. He had left her restoring her belongings from their travelling size and putting them away in the press and tallboy that furnished the dressing room.

Snape was tired again, the early morning wakefulness having worn off in the long walk up the school drive from the gates. The various pains that were the inevitable after-effect of Crucio were finally returning, despite his earlier hopes that he had avoided them, and his joints cracked and ached with a vengeance. He was out of practice, he thought drily, for Pinale to have managed to inflict this much damage.

Remembering Pinale brought to mind the thought that the man had had some connection with the Malfoys. Lucius Malfoy had, not entirely unsurprisingly, escaped all attempts to convict him of supporting Voldemort. Voldemort himself had not been required to testify; no attempts had been made to extract information from him after capture, as not even the Ministry were naïve enough to believe that they would hear the truth from Voldemort. Malfoy had twisted his way out of responsibility for the use of the Manor to hold captives and such activities, blaming Bellatrix for all and sundry, and so edged his way from an absolute connection with the Death Eaters; the man's arrogance was breath-taking but apparently not entirely misplaced. Snape had a - very - grudging admiration for his ability to sidle out of the most apparently impossible corners.

Now, that ability was finally useful, thought Snape. Malfoy was still around, albeit overseas: he had judged it prudent to leave Britain for a while. Still, this meant that he was still available to contact at a point where he might know something helpful. Whether he chose to recall Pinale was another matter altogether; Malfoy was entirely capable of 'forgetting' entire branches, or even trunks, of his family tree if it suited him.

Checking the window, gauging the time, Snape threw a handful of powder into the fireplace and requested ‘Chateau Malfoy’. The aches and pains of Crucio would have to wait; it was just before lunch and the time most likely for Malfoy to be at home.

The green lurch of the Floo network tore him from Hogwarts to step into the ornately over-furnished hall in France. Narcissa's taste had not improved over the years, thought Snape, looking around with a jaundiced eye. Overstuffed chairs with spindly legs, completely impractical as seats and far too hideous to be ornamental, lined the hall. Mahogany tables, carved with animals and flowers, stood in each corner and a vase of gaudy flowers stood on each one.

A moment after he arrived, a house-elf tumbled from one of the doors breathlessly.

"Master Snape, sir, Master Malfoy is not being here today," the elf said hurriedly. Snape didn't recognise this particular elf, but Malfoy was not renowned for the longevity of his staff. He thought for a moment, wondering whether to talk to Narcissa in Lucius' absence; he couldn't remember whether Pinale was family or merely an acquaintance. If he was only an acquaintance of Lucius', it was more than likely that she would know little - if anything - of him.

Snape was about to ask the elf when his master was expected home, when another door into the Hall opened. A tall, blond man entered the room, striding rapidly but with a paradoxically lazy gait. He stopped abruptly when he saw Snape.

"Professor!"

It was Draco; Snape hadn't seen the boy for several years now: he had avoided contact with the Malfoys generally after the fall of Voldemort, and, if memory served correctly, Draco had been largely estranged from his parents as well. Snape didn't know the detail of that estrangement and had had neither the opportunity nor the inclination to pursue the matter. McGonagall might choose to maintain contact with all and sundry, but Snape preferred to deal with the current set of students without the distraction of graduates as far as possible.

"Can I help at all?" Draco asked, as the house-elf gibbered something about his master and mistress being away. "My parents are on holiday - I believe Mother mentioned something about Italy - so I've taken the chance to relive some childhood memories here.” The young man's face twisted with bitterness at the last comment, and Snape wondered - not for the first time - just what he had had to deal with. Being Lucius Malfoy's son was not a fate to be aspired to.

"I had intended to speak with your father," said Snape. "I need some information about one of his circle," he added. There was little chance that Draco would know anything but, if he did, it would not have been an entirely wasted journey.

"Who?" asked Draco.

"Pinale," replied Snape. "I don't know whether -" He didn't get the chance to finish. Draco clearly knew the name, and thought little of the man.

"My darling godfather," he said, drily. "What has he been up to this time? Let’s find somewhere more comfortable; if I need to discuss one of the family lunatics, I would prefer not to do it standing in this hall. The draughts get colder each year."

He turned to the elf, still standing and fidgeting by the door.

"Corney, please light the fire in the green drawing room and get me some whisky. Do you want anything?" The last question was directed at Snape, who shook his head. It was rather early for whisky, and he looked again at Draco, more closely this time.

Whilst Hermione had matured over the past seven years, Draco Malfoy seemed to have been preserved: he looked little different now to the way he had done at school. His eyes were perhaps duller, and he had lost weight which he could ill afford to do. The biggest difference was the air of studied arrogance - once natural, it now seemed forced.

Snape followed him through one of the hall doors into a small, rather dark, room. A fire was lit - the house-elves had been busy just now, as the room was still cold - and a bottle of whisky stood on a small table beside one of the armchairs before the fire. Draco waved Snape towards one of the chairs as he poured himself a glass of whisky.

They settled into their chairs and finally Draco spoke again, staring into the amber of the whisky rather than meeting Snape's eyes.

"So, tell me, what has my insane godfather done this time?"

"When did you last see him?" asked Snape, unwilling to give much detail before knowing whether Draco would be able to help.

"Last summer; he came to stay for a week. Mother does rather like to keep her family close." Snape nodded, finally remembering that Pinale was a second cousin of Narcissa's, rather than a relative of Lucius’.

"How did he seem then?"

Draco laughed. "Insane. Much as usual. Obsessed with money and power; I can't say I go out of my way to talk to him," he drawled, "but I can't avoid it when Mother insists. It was the last time I was here - he may have visited since then but this is my first visit since last summer."

Snape avoided the implicit invitation to ask why Draco felt it necessary to leave home and concentrated instead on Pinale.

"What did you talk to him about?"

Draco's curiosity was apparently piqued. "You seem awfully interested in my godfather, Severus. Just what has he been up to?" That curiosity seem short-lived though, as he didn't wait for an answer to his question before launching straight into a reply to Snape's question. "The only time I spoke to him, he was babbling on about the Philosopher's Stone."

Snape hoped he didn't show the elation he felt; at last, some useful information. The situation with Voldemort might be difficult to prove, but this now seemed to have concrete links and perhaps - dare he hope for it - evidence of Pinale's intentions. He nodded, encouraging Draco to continue.

Sipping the whisky, Draco took the hint. "It's a new obsession with him - he changes obsession every few years. The one before this was something to do with Muggle politics, and the one before that was curse-duelling - he was rather taken with that one, I think. It certainly lasted longer than most. I never quite followed either - and he will insist on learning about each of his obsessions as far as possible. He seems to believe the Stone is a panacea for all his ills - money and eternal life. As much as you want of both. He has some financial problems, I think. A little too fond of bad predictions over Quidditch. I heard some rumours that he's been involved with wagers on Muggle horse races as well, when the Quidditch season is closed." Draco swallowed the last of the glass of whisky and rested his head against the back of his chair.

"He was getting profoundly boring about it all; I told him the Stone had been destroyed when I was in my first year, just to get rid of him. The wrong thing to say - seriously the wrong thing to say. Of course," he shrugged, "he then wanted to know all about the Stone - so I told him about Potter and Weasley, and the Granger girl, naturally. He didn't quite seem to believe me when I told him that Flamel and Dumbledore managed to destroy it. I suppose he can't cope with the idea of someone voluntarily giving up eternal life, let alone the never-ending bank account."

Snape nodded silently. This was, then, all the explanation needed: Draco's prattling, a misguided attempt to dissuade his godfather from a tedious topic of conversation, had led to Pinale's attacks on Hermione. The convoluted logic of a madman took discrete elements and made a collage from them that made sense to no-one else.

"Do you know where Pinale is now?" asked Snape quietly.

Draco looked sharply at him. "Why are you so keen to know?" he asked, then gestured absently. "Not that it matters, I'm just curious. Tell me or not, its your choice. I don't know where he is; not sure I ever did. I think he moves around a lot, paranoid that 'they' are out to get him. I don't think even he knows who 'they' are nowadays. He talks about London a lot, so he may live there."

The young man lapsed into silence for a while, and Snape debated telling him something of what was going on. In the end, he thought perhaps he should say something, if only to ensure that any curiosity Draco might summon up would be quashed before he could say something to his father, or Pinale himself. He selected a half-truth.

"He been making a nuisance of himself - I ran into him using some of Voldemort's old tricks on a Muggleborn. Not particularly safe, at the best of times. I thought I might pay him a visit and suggest some discretion."

Draco snorted. "Good luck to you. I can't say I've ever heard him listen to anyone; what's he doing, shaking them down for money?"

"Something like that," murmured Snape, and then changed the subject, easing into tedious small talk to distract Draco from thinking more closely about his visit. "Are your parents away for long?"

"Not long enough," replied Draco, looking round to summon the house-elf again. "I'll have to find somewhere to go before they come back. Father doesn't approve of me idling around the house all day - of course, he doesn't approve if I try to find some work to do either. Ah, Corney, thank you. Another whisky."

He held out his glass to the house-elf, and Snape took this as an opportune moment to leave; Draco seemed disinclined to continue the conversation or to pursue any thought as to why Snape was involving himself with Pinale's attacks. The young man made no particular attempt to dissuade him from going, merely muttering "goodbye" as Snape levered himself from the chair. Muscles recovering from a curse and a twitching nervous system made it difficult to do this with any real dignity, but Draco seemed not to notice. He was, once more, absorbed in the liquid amber of his whisky.

Another trip through the Floo network led Snape back to his rooms; the blur of passing fireplaces made him feel slightly ill, which he blamed on his balance still being affected slightly from the remnants of Crucio and the efforts of trying not to show that he was affected. He was out of practice at this, clearly. 

When he returned to his rooms he was somehow surprised to still find it morning - it had already been a long day. He fell into bed, still fully clothed, hoping not to be disturbed before he had had a chance to sleep off the last of the aches and pains.

****

Hermione settled into the window seat of the tower room - far above everything in the world, quiet and peaceful. The grounds of Hogwarts spread out below her in a dappled green canvas; the gaudy tents of the Quidditch pitch rippled with the morning breeze that left its trail in small waves that chased across the lake.

Her notes were spread out across the cushion in front of her; Hermione sat tucked into the corner, her back against the stone wall, and looked at the file without seeing it. Yesterday afternoon replayed in her mind; the cold fear and the dragging time as the hex grazed her and deflected away from the glass. Her arm had been mildly sore this morning, although that could have been the result of sleeping on the sofa. A Numbing Charm had dealt with the soreness, and Hermione doubted whether Snape had even noticed - although she would have been surprised if he had; his own encounter with Crucio almost certainly centred his attention elsewhere. She had been surprised by how quickly he seemed to have recovered, although he had appeared uncomfortable this morning once more. Staring out of the window once more, Hermione hoped he had had the sense to go back to his rooms and sleep off the rest of the residual aching.

In the grounds below, she spotted Hagrid making his way across the lawns towards his hut. Fang - or, more probably these days, Fang's son - was at his side. Some things never changed; Hagrid was one of them. Hermione debated heading down to meet him but, after turning the idea over in her mind, decided against it. The hut held pleasant memories from her schooldays, and she preferred not to pollute them with present-day reality.

A knock on the door startled her and she looked back sharply. Surely it couldn't be Snape? He had barely left - Hermione checked her watch and suddenly realised she had spent an hour doing nothing. She shook her head as she asked whoever was at the door to come in.

The door creaked open and Hermione had a moment of blind panic, abruptly convinced that Pinale had found some way to get into Hogwarts. She had her hand on her wand and was about to raise it when Professor McGonagall’s head appeared around the door. She sighed with relief, easing her hand from the wand and willing her heart rate to slow as she stood.

"Hermione - it is good to see you; I wish it were under better circumstances but you are, of course, always welcome here."

Hermione smiled. "Thank you, Headmistress. Would you like some tea?"

Professor McGonagall smiled quickly. “Thank you, but do let me ask the house-elves for it. There’s always some ready in the kitchens.”

There was something in her smile that made Hermione suspect that descriptions of her tea-making ability had preceded her. She smiled more widely; a house-elf appeared without warning, presumably summoned by the Headmistress in some way. An order of tea appeared moments later, before they had had a chance to begin any conversation.

Professor McGonagall seated herself in an armchair facing the window where Hermione had settled again, and they each cradled a mug in their hands.

"I understand you had another incident with one of Voldemort's devotees?" asked the Headmistress, the statement both truth and question. Hermione nodded.

"Severus recognised him; has he spoken to you about it?"

Hermione wondered whether Snape had detoured via the Headistress’ office on the way to his rooms. A shake of Professor McGonagall’s head dispatched that idea - Snape had to have been in a hurry to not even see the Headmistress. She wondered where he had gone; then wondered whether he had been more hurt than he had told her, and whether that was the reason for the hurry. She was about to ask Professor McGonagall to excuse her, and go and check on Snape, when the Headmistress spoke up.

"I believe Severus is well; if my understanding is correct, the man who attacked you is godfather to one of our former students. I suspect Severus has gone to see if he can shed any light on the motives and whereabouts of the man in question."

Hermione stared at the Headmistress, wondering just how much information the school records contained … and how much was simply the accumulated knowledge of the Headmistress’ years.

"Tell me about the progress you are making with the Stone," asked the Headmistress, drawing Hermione to another subject. “Dumbledore and Flamel were always most reticent to talk about the work, although I’m not sure just how much I would have really followed in any case. What stage have you reached?"

Hermione seized the distraction willingly, and launched into a description of the stages the work had passed through - at present, the stone was a spectacular orange-white. A pure white silver would be the culmination of the sublimation work, and should not take too much longer to achieve - the final addition of material to the sublimation would be needed in a week or so.

The Headmistress let her speak, only occasionally asking questions to clarify - or to seek information – although Hermione was not always entirely certain what it was that she was trying to clarify.

Eventually, the Headmistress stood. "Thank you, Hermione. That was delightful." She seemed to spot Hermione’s notes on the desk for the first time. "Studying for your viva?" she asked. Hermione nodded. "You have nothing to worry about, Hermione. I understand that your thesis is excellent."

Hermione frowned, then relaxed. "Thank you, Headmistress. When did Severus discuss it with you?"

Professor McGonagall smiled again. "He had no need to show me, Hermione. I have my own copy - perhaps it would be fair to tell you that I will be one of the examiners at your viva voce examination; I was flattered and honoured to be asked."

Hermione was confused; the Headmistress’ expertise was in Transfiguration rather than Alchemy. Professor McGonagall spoke again, apparently reading Hermione’s confusion. 

“I’ve been appointed as an independent lay assessor; Amergin call on me from time to time to sit in on vivas to add some non-specialist balance on the panel where the student has studied closely with the university panel members.”

Hermione nodded; it was a logical appointment and the Headmistress could be relied upon to be fair and ensure she had a chance to prove her knowledge of the area.

On the whole, Hermione thought it was probably a good thing; even if it did double the butterflies in her stomach at the reminder of her viva. Professor McGonagall’s suggestion that Hermione accompany her down to the Hall for lunch did not improve things either. Nonetheless, Hermione agreed. The distraction of the Hall, and the students, would probably be better than sitting here worrying about things she could not change.

Hall was noisy - Hermione had forgotten how much noise students could make; or perhaps it was amplified here at High Table. She sat in Snape's chair: the Headmistress had been convinced that Snape would not make it down to lunch and so far that conviction seemed well-founded. Her presence was the source of some curiosity on the part of the students; none of them had been here in her time, the oldest would have started the year after she left. It was possible that some would know who she was; on the whole, though, she was a stranger to them and, as she well remembered, strangers were perfect material for gossip. Her seat, in Snape's place, would only add fuel to the rumours and speculation that fed the school.

After lunch, her ears still ringing from the noise, Hermione made her way to the dungeons. If nothing else, she could check on the progress of the Stone they were creating here. She summoned her notes from her room; she was rather tired, both from the barrage of noise over lunch and the disturbed night's sleep, and was not particularly inclined to climb back up to her rooms in the East Tower. In the dimly-lit corridors of the dungeons she found peace and quiet, leaving behind even the Slytherin common-room's bustle.

****

Snape woke around mid-afternoon; the aching had subsided, but he had a blinding headache from too much sleep and too little to drink. Sitting on the edge of the bed he poured a glass of water from the jug which the house-elves kept filled on side table and drank it slowly, bringing his mind back into focus as he did so. His clothes were creased and rather uncomfortable - they were not designed to be slept in - and, once he had finished the water, he changed into his usual teaching robes, even though it was Sunday.

Once dressed, Snape debated checking on Hermione; he decided that she was undoubtedly still studying and, in any case, was well able to look after herself. He would see her at dinner, and that would be soon enough - for her, at least. In the meantime, he should record the progress of the work on the Stone that occupied a corner of his private laboratory.

In the laboratory he found not only the work but also Hermione. She jumped, clearly startled, when he swept into the room. He had not been expecting anyone to be there, and so had not particularly announced his presence. Given how nervous Hermione was likely to be after yesterday's incident, Snape thought that it might be wiser to ensure that she knew it was him next time he tried to enter a room where she was. He was in no particular hurry to deal with a curse again.

"Good afternoon," he said, offering a greeting in lieu of an apology for startling her. "I take it that all is as it should be?" Hermione had been scribbling notes, and he wondered whether she was recording the state of the work or whether she was studying.

Hermione had closed her file and stood up. "It's fine: looks to be at the same stage as Oxford, and there's nothing unexpected. Did you ..." She paused, and Snape waited for her to finish.

"Did you manage to get some rest?" she asked finally. Snape thought she had planned to ask something else, but decided to answer the question actually spoken.

"Some, yes, thank you. I paid a visit to Mr Malfoy first, though. He was very illuminating on the subject of Pinale." Hermione looked puzzled, and Snape continued. "Pinale is Draco's godfather - it was Draco I spoke to, although I had intended to see his father. It was, however, probably more useful to talk with Draco. At least with him I don't need to contend with his father's insufferable preening and arrogance." Snape thought that Hermione raised an eyebrow at his last description of Malfoy, but chose to ignore the implied insult - particularly because he rather thought she was doing it deliberately to provoke him. "It would appear that Pinale is likely to be based in London at present, and that you may thank Malfoy junior for inspiring Pinale's current fascination with you."

"How charming of him," drawled Hermione. "And what did I do to deserve that particular entertainment?" Snape wanted desperately to smile at her ironic query but, with some effort, kept a straight face as he described Malfoy's conversation with Pinale. He suspected Draco Malfoy could come to regret having used that particular story to distract his godfather.

Their conversation was interrupted by an owl that swept into the room from one of the accesses hidden high in the roof; it wheeled across the room and dropped an envelope into Hermione's lap. Snape watched her go slightly pale at the sight of the crest on the back of the parchment and stepped forward.

"What is it? Pinale -?"

His question was cut short by a shake of Hermione's head. She swallowed and looked up.

"It's from Amergin. It's my viva date." Snape said nothing as she broke the seal and spread the parchment open. "The day after tomorrow," she added. "I need to go back to Oxford. You may come with me, or not, as you choose. And yes," she said with a touch of exasperation as he automatically began to tell her that she could not go alone, "I know how dangerous it is. But I also know that I need to study, and for that I need access to the Bodleian. I am not going to allow Pinale to disrupt everything I've worked for over the years."

She faced him now, mouth set firmly and obstinately and seemingly daring him to disagree. Snape shrugged, to her apparent surprise; he had thought she would know him better by now. He was hardly likely to protest her desire to do well on her viva, no matter whether he thought her safer at Hogwarts.

Hermione was looking curiously at him, and Snape almost smiled. "I will arrange with the Headmistress to come with you; it would not be the first time a Head has had to find someone to cover my classes, although it has been some time since any last had that particular pleasure," he said, and then did smile at the clear consternation on Hermione's face. "I'll arrange for a set of rooms at Amergin; we can set the wards so that I am alerted if Pinale does attempt to gain access."

In the end, Hermione simply nodded. Snape was fairly sure he had left her no option and, in any case, she was certainly no longer the child who had flouted all the rules put in place for her protection so many years ago.

The Headmistress was rather more enthusiastic about the plan than even Snape had anticipated; perhaps he should go away more often during termtime? Then again, perhaps not; he would like to retain his job, although there was little danger of the Headmistress finding someone to take over on a permanent basis.

They left that afternoon, apparating to the dark alleyway that Hermione had taken him to the first time that he had accompanied her to Oxford. This time, instead of ducking through the colonnades and alleyways that led to Amergin, she headed off towards the Bodleian library. Snape followed her past the University Church and the Radcliffe Camera through an archway and into the inner courtyard of the library. Hermione seemed to have forgotten he was there, focussed as she was on gaining access to the reading rooms. When she reached the entrance door, though, she paused and turned.

"I suppose you will need to meet me here later. The rooms close at seven o'clock, could you meet me then?" she asked.

Snape raised an eyebrow. "I had planned to come in with you - it is not often that I get the opportunity to do some research with this collection."

Hermione frowned and looked worried. "But you need a reader's card to get in: they won't simply let you in, and it's not a straightforward process to get a card."

Snape simply looked at her. "Hermione, I'm a wizard. If I don't want them to see me, they won't. And besides," he added silkily, "I believe this will ensure that I have access to the library - without resorting to magic." Saying this, he produced a small plastic yellow and white card with a truly appalling photograph imprinted on it.

Hermione blinked and stared at him, before being pushed aside by someone leaving the library. When she had regained her balance she looked up at him again. "How did you get that?" she asked, finally.

"The same way that you did. You are not the first Hogwarts student to have attended Oxford, Hermione," he said with a touch of acid.

"No, no of course not," she replied, apparently slightly flustered. "I just never realised ..." Her voice trailed off, but Snape decided not to tease her further. She would probably find out soon enough. Hermione turned and led the way through the librarians' desks and up to his favourite of the Bodleian's sections: Duke Humphrey's library. It was oddly comforting, and somehow entirely unchanged even though it had been almost twenty years since he had last spent any substantial time studying in these rooms. He had kept his reader's card up to date more from nostalgia and hope than because of any real opportunity to use it. The library itself was a quiet haven in dark wood and unending shelving, up above the Divinity School; he had never quite been able to look at the Divinity School without thinking of the Hogwarts Infirmary, for some reason, but the library had been one of his favourite places whilst he was at college.

****

Hermione settled herself into one of the free desk spaces, surreptitiously watching Snape wander quietly about the shelves apparently looking for something to read. She signed and spread her notes out about her before heading for the librarian's desk to retrieve the volumes she had requested before leaving Hogwarts - the school's information system linked across into the Muggle Internet, where she had placed the request via the library website. More efficient even than owls, the books were now waiting for her. She collected them and walked back to her desk, still thinking about her reaction to Snape's revelation that he had been to Oxford.

She had no idea why she was so startled - perhaps because she had so compartmentalised her life, so that he belonged always to that part labelled 'Hogwarts'. To suddenly make him belong in Oxford required a shift of thought, an awareness of him as something other than her former teacher and current lab partner, and an interesting conversationalist. 

The wrench threw him not only outside her mental compartments but also into a strange, new, awareness of him as an individual. As a man, with a history and a childhood. His history as a Death Eater she had long known about and understood. This, though, was more mundane and more startling: that he had been a student here, cycling from college to tutorials, working in the dark hours before an essay was due to overcome too much socialising. Running through corridors and relaxing on lawn quadrangles, watching a game of croquet in the height of summer.

Hermione snorted softly to herself, though still earning a look of rebuke from the elderly gentleman sitting next to her. She had been ascribing her own experiences to Snape, and most likely his had been very different; all the same, the principle held. She got up from the desk again, abruptly, and headed for the far end of the long room. Her footsteps echoed in the rafters that formed the high ceiling until she reached what she sought - a set of shelves that yielded to a muttered password and led her into the Restricted Section of the Bodleian, a collection of books that would startle any Muggle, if any had been allowed to enter. Hermione found the Amergin yearbooks without difficulty, and ran her finger along the slightly dusty books until she reached 1981; that would have been his last year as an undergraduate, she thought.

It had indeed been his last year; a small black and white photograph scowled at her, with his yearbook quote etched below it. _The past is another country; they do things differently there._

Hermione recalled her thoughts - months ago now - as she walked up to Hogwarts. It felt strange to see the same phrase written here, now. She studied the photograph; he had filled out, perhaps, but little else seemed different. The youth in the picture was rather more skinny than slender, but perhaps he had had the same problems remembering to eat that she had. There was so much to do … Hermione turned her attention back to the text and read on.

_Severus Snape (Hogwarts). First class joint honours degree (Alchemy and Chemistry, Christchurch). Chairman: Paracelsus Society. Awarded the deWitt scholarship for achievement in Alchemy Preliminary Examinations._

She closed the book slowly, replacing it on its shelf and leaning back against the shelving. How … strange. He had taken a double First as well - only he had studied both Alchemy and Chemistry. At Christchurch, of all places. Still, she supposed it made some sense - the college had a reputation for taking those of old families, and Snape was certainly that, on the Prince side. 

Her mental image of Snape now adjusted to include a picture of the pale boy in the photograph running across the quad in the shadow of Old Tom, the Christchurch tower, and avoiding Mercury, the pond in the middle of the quad. Taking classes to the sound of the cathedral bells tolling nearby.

She laughed abruptly, shaking herself from the ideas. She had work to do, and a viva to take tomorrow. Besides, Snape had read Chemistry at Christchurch - chances were that he had spent most of his time at the Science departments near the Parks and had hardly been near the college, apart from perhaps needing to keep up appearances of being there, in much the same way that she had done at Oriel.

There was little value in painting a romantic picture of Snape at college. She needed to concentrate on other things now, and the integration of this new information into her expanding awareness and knowledge of him could wait until the viva was over.

With this thought in mind, Hermione returned to her desk and began work. She barely noticed Snape's occasional forays from the shelves to check on her progress.

The desklamps of the library kept her closeted in a small pool of light, the rest of the world shut out as she reviewed the work she had done, trying to second guess the examiners - and trying to block out the knowledge that she would be facing Professor McGonagall tomorrow. A stray thought chased through her mind as she wondered who would teach Potions with Snape away. Hermione caught herself and forced her attention back to her theories, checking facts with the series of books in front of her.

In the end, it was the library closing that forced her to abandon work for the evening, startled by Snape's gentle touch on her shoulder to attract her attention as the librarians dismissed the other readers. Leaving her books and notes, carefully marked for her to return to the following morning, she followed Snape into the darkness of the Oxford night.

"Dinner?" he asked. Hermione tried to decide whether she was even hungry yet, and eventually shook her head.

"Not just yet: I'd like to check on the Stone first. We can find something later," she added.

"Just as long as it's not a kebab," muttered Snape darkly, "I'm too old to risk botulism from a van at midnight." Hermione burst out laughing, caught unaware by the suddenly apparent humour in much of what he said. At some point in the late afternoon, surrounded by the knowledge of four hundred years, she had come to terms with her new - and newly understood - knowledge of this man. 

She was profoundly aware of him now, without needing to look at him; she could feel his presence next to her and was aware of the layers of his personality. He had broken out of the box in which she had placed him - had never really been enclosed by it, certainly not since he had appeared at her door in late December - and she would never be able to consider him in the same way again.

She shivered suddenly; he noticed, of course. She found his coat settled around her shoulders a moment later. It still held his heat, comforting her, and carried his unique scent - dry, with a tinge of some spice - and Hermione had to resist the temptation to wrap herself completely in the thick warmth.

The laboratory held a surprise, which Hermione noticed as soon as they entered. The glass vessel had cleared a little earlier than she had calculated; in place of the black and blue clouds and the orange-white powder there was nothing but a residue of shimmering silver-white powder in a small pile at the bottom of the glass. It looked like the purest crystals of snow, harvested from a mountain top and untouched by humanity. Once they had opened the glass the room was filled with its scent; a sweet perfume, a complete contrast to the poison that had been produced until now, and unlike anything Hermione had smelt before. Even Snape seemed as stunned by it as she was.

The lesser work was complete; they had now the means to make silver if they so chose, and Snape decided to test it. He took a ringpull from a can of Diet Coke, looking at it oddly, and dipped it into the powder; they waited for a tense minute and then he lifted it out carefully with a glass stirrer. It had become silver; a more polished refinement of the dull aluminium it had been just a moment before.

"What is this?" asked Snape eventually. Hermione laughed.

"It's a ringpull, Severus. From a can of drink - not something wizards seem to have, but I've never quite got over a childhood addiction. It helps keep me awake and it's a bit more convenient than coffee." She wasn't sure that she had explained particularly clearly, but Snape seemed to accept it. He frowned again at the ringpull and presented it to her. Hermione tucked it away into a pocket; perhaps he had meant her to throw it away, but she had other intentions.

She was well aware that she could say nothing to Snape about her recent shift in perception of him, and increasing awareness of him. To do so would be to guarantee pity, at best, and avoidance at worst. She had been his student - and no doubt he still thought of her that way, even if he had accepted her as an equal now. She could not bear to lose his friendship - and it was certainly that, despite the differences between them - and tried very hard to think about what would happen once they had finished the work, with no more excuse for their Friday evening conversations.

Hermione curled her fingers around the ringpull; it would remind her of both Snape and this moment.

Somewhere in her musings, Snape had spotted a letter near the fireplace and had picked it up. She was surprised to see him open it, but when he read the contents she understood.

"Dear Hermione and Severus," he read, "I thought you would wish to know as soon as possible that the lesser work has been completed here at Hogwarts. I trust that you have had equal success at Oxford. Regards, Minerva.”

Hermione smiled; it was not unexpected, but it was still a relief to know that the two processes continued in tandem. They had left the Headmistress with a request that she check the work this evening and tomorrow morning, in lieu of Snape's own inspections.

Dinner passed in a tangle of conversation that ranged from a debate of the respective merits of Muggle and wizard photography to a soliloquy from Snape on the art of potions via a discussion of one of Hermione's favourite lines from _High Season_ , a movie she otherwise found a waste of time. "All artists are exhibitionists, but only photographers are voyeurs." The food was forgotten, eaten without noticing, in the midst of the ideas released and developed in the midst of their words.

Wrapped still in their conversation they walked back to Amergin through the never-still streets, alternately shadowed and lit by the streetlights that shone high above them. Hermione wished she had had a compelling reason to forget her coat again, but firmly rejected that thought. She needed to get her mind back into something resembling order; she could not risk either his noticing or her becoming distracted tomorrow. She promised herself that, as soon as all this was over, she would go away somewhere - take a holiday - and lose herself in daydreams of impossible what-ifs. Until then, everything she had learnt about self-discipline would need to be exploited.

To her surprise, Hermione slept well; broken nights, near misses from curses, quelled panic over an exam and newly-found unrequited love clearly formed a recipe for exhaustion. Breakfast was unthinkable, though, and she headed back to the library as soon as she could, with Snape once more accompanying her.

The morning passed in study until, just before lunch, Hermione shut her books without any prompting. She turned to look for Snape and found him standing behind her, waiting for her to notice him.

"Lunch?"

She nodded and collected her notes together. "If I don't know it by now …” she said, shrugging off the nervous tension that coursed through her.

They lunched in the Covered Market, at one of the myriad small sandwich bars there. Snape's appetite had clearly not deserted him, but Hermione could do nothing more than sip at a Diet Coke and watch him dispatch an avocado and bacon sandwich. Watching his mouth was an effective distraction though, and she found herself calming down as the edge of her panic over the upcoming examination was muted by a more interesting tension.

Back at college once again, Hermione changed in her rooms. Amergin followed Oxford tradition, and all examinations required the student to wear subfusc: in Hermione's case, that was a black skirt, white blouse, black string tie, black stockings and shoes, topped by her academic gown, white fur lined hood and mortarboard. In a pocket of her skirt was tucked her keyring, with the silver ringpull that Snape had given her now added to the ring.

Snape knocked on her door shortly after she was ready; he had asked her whether she would mind if he attended the viva. Hermione had agreed, although she was now questioning the wisdom of that decision.

She opened the door and thought that an odd look flashed across Snape's face - it was gone too fast for her to be sure. He offered her his arm, an old-fashioned courtesy that she found charming. He had found academic gowns from somewhere or, more likely, summoned his from Hogwarts via Floo. They fit too well to be borrowed, after all. The scarlet DPhil gown was so different to the eternal black in which she saw him clothed that she was taken aback by it for a moment, before nodding in approval. She thought she saw his lips quirk in a swift smile at her appraisal of him as they set off to the formal room in the Senior Common Room in which her viva examination would take place.

****

Snape settled into a chair in a corner of the room; the chestnut panelled walls and rich tapestries darkened the space, centring attention on the table in the middle at which sat the three examiners. McGonagall, Lishcka - the Amergin Professor of Alchemy - and a third man; Snape thought that he was Lucier, one of the professors of Alchemy at the University of Santiago. He had read that Lucier was spending a couple of years in Oxford, exchanging with one of Lishcka’s colleagues.

Hermione sat at a chair in front of the table, looking pale but resolute. He had been concerned about her, particularly as she had barely eaten that day, but on the whole she seemed to be coping well with the process. Perhaps examinations suited her, despite the last-minute studying. She had handled the questions easily and confidently, as the examiners tested her on the central topics of her thesis - Snape was rather impressed by the examiners, in fact, as they examined her on a subject which he was rather inclined to believe none of them knew anything about. He knew for certain that Minerva’s entire knowledge came from his conversations with her about Hermione’s work; he really should remember not to underestimate the Headmistress’ ability to absorb information.

Quantum alchemy was far beyond anything that alchemists generally dealt with; few wizards studied Muggle science to any great degree, despite its close application to magic. The quantum physics on which Hermione had based her theories and exploration had relevance not just to alchemy but also to transfiguration and apparating.

Suddenly the room fell silent, and Snape realised that Lucier had just asked Hermione whether she had in fact made the Philosopher's Stone: he believed that her thesis held information which suggested that she had done so. Snape watched Hermione nod after a moment's thought, not confirming that she had made the Stone but simply agreeing that her thesis could be read that way.

"I have not made the Stone, Professor Lucier. I have, as you have discovered for yourself, found what appears to be the key to the process that Nicolas Flamel used but I do not believe that it is essential for the purposes of the work that I have done in this area that I make the Stone itself."

Lucier nodded and moved onto another question, and Snape released the breath he had not been aware of holding.

The examination went on, in the end, for over two hours - Hermione drew the three examiners into a discussion of additional areas of research which lay to be explored from the opening she had created with her thesis. Finally, Lischka stood and formally thanked her for attending the viva. Hermione was asked to return in half an hour, to allow them time to complete their deliberations. Snape rose and left with her.

Outside, Hermione paced around the courtyard. Snape debated whether or not to follow her and, in the end, did so. As he drew level with her, Hermione suddenly looked up at him.

"How many other people will realise that I know how to make the Stone?" she asked. "I have to publish my thesis, it's one of the requirements. How many more people are going to come after me now, in person or by letter, wanting instructions, wanting money … wanting more." Her voice trailed off.

Snape wanted to comfort her; it was an unusual feeling, but he had been suppressing unusual feelings ever since he collected her from her room and found her dressed in a rather short skirt. She had worn trousers every time they had met, and he had not seen her in a skirt since she was in school uniform; but she had not looked like this when she was in school uniform. Snape was aware enough to realise that, quite apart from anything else, he saw now Hermione in her own right and not as a student. It made rather a difference.

He suspected that comfort would not be well received; he was out of practice at giving it, and he wasn't prepared to risk their friendship over a misunderstanding this way. He settled instead for practical advice.

"You don't need to publish it in exactly the same form: only the copy that you need to deposit with the Bodleian needs to be exactly the same. You can edit it for publication; tell them that your editor wants it to appeal to a wider audience. You can take out some of the elements that point to your knowledge of the Stone whilst making it more accessible. Not that I suggest you embark on a career to rival Lockhart's," he added drily.

The comment had the intended effect: Hermione laughed. Snape wondered whether she had been one of the students who had developed a crush on Gilderoy Lockhart's rather dubious charms during the man's ill-fated tenure as teacher at Hogwarts. He hoped she had had more sense; he knew that she would have more sense now.

They strolled through the colonnades of the college, around the quadrangles, watching the students lazing in the sunshine. Some were playing croquet, a game which Snape had never entirely understood - Dumbledore had been a vicious croquet player, and had occasionally tried to interest Snape in the game but, to his subtle regret now, he had resisted.

As they neared the Senior Common Room again, for the third time around that particular area, the door opened and Minerva looked out. Seeing them, she called to Hermione.

"Hermione, Severus - we are ready for you, Hermione, if you would like to come back in."

They re-entered the room and Snape went back to the chair in the corner. He aimed to be inconspicuous - as inconspicuous as it was possible to be in scarlet doctoral robes. Oxford DPhils were not generally hard to distinguish in a crowd of academics.

Minerva had sat back down with the other two examiners, and Lischka rose to face Hermione, who had remained standing.

"It is my very great pleasure, Doctor Granger, to confirm that we have accepted your thesis and would like to take this opportunity to commend you on an exceptional piece of work - we look forward to seeing you research this area further."

Snape wasn't entirely convinced that Hermione had heard anything beyond the words "Doctor Granger"; she certainly looked dazed as she went through the motions of shaking hands with the examiners and receiving their personal congratulations.

Finally, as Hermione looked slightly lost once the examiners had each had a chance to talk to her, he stood and swept off his robe and walked across to her.

"Doctor Granger," he said, seeking her attention. She looked at him, startled, and then looked confused as he offered the gown to her. "I believe this might be more appropriate that the gown you're wearing at the moment?" he added, a smile on his face.

Hermione blinked and clearly understood - finally - what it was that he was doing. She shrugged off her own gown and hood and took the bundle of scarlet from him.

"Thank you," she said as she draped it over her shoulders, and then laughed. It trailed along the ground behind her, made for his height and not hers. No matter, it was the symbolism that he had intended.

Minerva was smiling at them both with a twinkle in her eye; Snape thought she reminded him of Dumbledore for a moment, and wondered just what the Headmistress was up to now. That particular look had usually spelt trouble when he’d seen it on Dumbledore’s face.

"A lovely gesture, Severus," Minerva said now. "I presume you will be taking Doctor Granger off for some suitable celebration?"

Snape had planned precisely that, in fact. He supposed he should be annoyed with the Headmistress for apparently forcing his hand but, in the end, all he could feel was relief that he had not had to muster the courage to ask Hermione without warning. He turned to her and bowed formally, maintaining eye contact just enough to try to convey that he was teasing; the smile on her face suggested that she understood.

"I should be honoured if you would allow me to take you somewhere more ... festive," he said as he straightened. Hermione laughed again and nodded. Snape suspected she was already euphoric as the realisation that she had passed sank in; she had to have known that she had passed, as Lischka would not have permitted her to submit a thesis that was not of the appropriate standard, but it was still a relief to have it confirmed. He remembered that particular feeling with some clarity, even though it was mixed with the recollection of horror as Voldemort promptly summoned him once he had heard the news. He dismissed that memory; Voldemort would not be summoning Hermione later today.

Finally, once all the congratulations had been said and repeated, Snape walked Hermione back to her rooms in a companionable silence; when they reached her door, she handed him his gown.

"Thank you, Severus," she said. "That was … I liked it very much. Thank you. Um … do you want to meet me back here in ten minutes?" She was, he thought, still apparently distracted by the relief of having the viva over with.

"Very well. I had planned that we might go to London; there's somewhere I think would be appropriate."

Hermione nodded.

"Good, that'll mean I can go home to change properly first - I don't really have anything other than jeans and academic dress here. Shall I meet you at the flat in an hour, instead?"

"I would prefer to accompany you; we have no idea where Pinale is, after all," Snape reminded her. He didn't want to flatly refuse and spoil the afternoon, but he hoped she would pick up on the point. She didn't.

"He won't know, and I won't be there long. It’s not as though I planned to go back to the flat so, wherever he's getting his information from, he won't be able to tell I'm going."

Snape clenched his jaw, stopping himself from pointing out just how foolish she was being; at the back of his mind, fear nagged at him to warn her. Instead, he nodded curtly.

"Very well, I'll collect you in an hour at your flat."

Hermione smiled and gave him a small wave as she disappeared into her rooms.

Snape spent the following hour checking the reservations he had made and sending his academic robes back to Hogwarts. The room he had borrowed at Amergin had, usefully, a fireplace connected to the Floo network.

An hour later he presented himself at Hermione's flat, feeling as though he was about to go on a first date. He quelled the sarcastic comments that came to mind, hauling himself back to the present reality. Dreaming was best reserved for the dead of night, when there was no-one around.

He knocked, and the door swung slowly open. Recollections of a laboratory in Oxford flashed through his mind, and he took out his wand as he pushed the door further open. The room was in darkness.


	5. Copper

_Copper - or Venus - the first stage of the 'greater work', the descent from the pole of the Moon when the body and soul are reunited following the purification of both. At the beginning of this stage, the female aspects are dominant over the male; by the end, the male is dominant over the female - the fixative sulphur prevails over the more volatile quicksilver to create a new active crystallization. Copper reveals the goal of the 'greater work', reflecting gold in itself but as yet not sufficiently purified to be gold itself._

* * *

Hermione heard the door open and winced as she tried to move; her wand was on the floor, inches away from her hand, and she ignored the pain shooting through her as she tried to reach it. A tall figure was silhouetted against the light from the doorway, and she almost blacked out with panic until she realised that it was Snape. Then she did faint, from relief.

When she came to, she was cradled in Snape's arms as he hurried through darkness outdoors; the lights of Hogwarts ahead gave her rather confused mind some idea of where they were. She stirred, and was interrupted by a harsh voice.

"Stay still, do you want to fall?"

The words were bitten out, harsh. Hermione stiffened at the tone and tried to move again; Snape's response was to tighten his arms around her. Hermione wondered why he hadn't simply used the Mobilicorpus spell to move her; surely it would have been easier.

As the though came, she voiced it, too tired and aching too much from the curses to use any tact.

His response was a harsh bite. ”Do you seriously think I would try any spell on you until Madam Pomfrey has had a chance to examine you? I have no idea what that idiot used on you, and I have no intention of making anything worse.”

Snape's voice was still harsh, and Hermione blinked away tears. They would not help the situation, even if he was likely to attribute them to the curses. He had, of course, been right in suggesting that she should not go home alone.

She had arrived home to a cold, empty flat. She had barely had time to open the door when she was pushed roughly from behind to fall through the doorway to the floor. A boot had kicked her, catching a couple of ribs; she had thought then that she was dealing with ordinary London muggers: not a difficult thing to deal with for a witch. That thought vanished when she tried to reach her wand and heard a now familiar voice grate "Expelliarmus". She felt her wand vanish from her grasp, and knew for certain that she would not come through this episode in any better shape than Snape had only a few days earlier.

The beating had been swift and hard; all that saved her, she suspected, was that Pinale had not found the Stone in her apartment, although he had certainly tried hard enough. Her books had been scattered across the floor, her computer flung against the wall to shatter it - just in case it was harbouring the stone - and the contents of cupboards strewn around the place. She had no idea what state her bedroom and bathroom were in, but she doubted that they had been any less thorough there.

Eventually they had left, firing additional curses just for good measure. She had curled up into a small ball, holding to the recollection of Snape's promise to meet her - he would be there soon, he had to be there soon …

Brought back from her memories by a sharp jostling as Snape almost stumbled on the path, Hermione winced.

"Hold still," he muttered, and she could feel him bracing himself as he continued.

They reached the school doors a few minutes later, Hermione clinging to consciousness with some hard-won tenacity. The doors opened as they approached to reveal Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey waiting for them.

Half an hour later, Hermione was much more awake and in much less pain, thanks to the application of various potions and some charms; and she was lying on a bed in the Infirmary with Snape sitting on the bed next to her. He had just been allowed back into the room, having been banned by Madam Pomfrey earlier when he had been pacing as she tried to work.

"You can't go back just now: not to Oxford nor to London. This would be a good time to go and do that research in Santiago, Hermione.”

The biting tone had tempered with time, and he now sounded simply concerned. Hermione watched him, noting his hands clasped tightly together, the knuckles white. She wondered whether he had simply been scared as he had brought her up to the school. It was an intriguing notion, but she suspected it was only wishful thinking on her part.

She nodded, agreeing. Perhaps it was best to get away now - and she did need to do some research to confirm some of her calculations for the greater work. The ability to create silver was very useful, but they needed to complete the work.

****

Snape sighed with relief at her acquiescence. Pinale was getting more desperate, and Hermione was clearly his primary obstacle to what he wanted. In the half an hour or so in which Madam Pomfrey had barred him from the Infirmary, he had talked with Minerva; the conversation was part confession and part strategy planning. Nothing had been confessed in so many words, but Snape was well aware that the Headmistress understood - perhaps better than Snape himself did - what was driving him to ensure Hermione's safety.

Only a few days remained until the end of term; the exams had already been dealt with and marked. All that was left was effectively crowd control, rather than teaching as such. Minerva had agreed to extend the cover of Snape's classes; that would undoubtedly fuel rumours as to Snape's demise or other similar gruesome situation. That would undoubtedly make things more interesting next autumn, when he returned to the school.

Pinale was more of a problem: they had no idea where he was, or when he would strike. Snape was reasonably confident that they would be safe in Santiago as, apart from anything else, Hermione would not be alone. After this evening, he also had a suspicion that Pinale had cast wards on Hermione's flat and laboratory to alert him whenever she returned to them. As she had said, no-one had known of her intention to return to the flat this evening. It was possible that Pinale had simply lain in wait for her but Snape thought it more likely that he had provided himself with some sort of warning system that would allow him to wait in more comfort.

Minerva had offered to talk to the Minister about a search for Pinale, noting that the Ministry Aurors were always in need of practice now, with the Death Eaters dispersed and Voldemort in prison. Whilst the problem of Voldemort remained, it was an abstract problem recognised by few: certainly nothing that the Aurors could deal with, with their rather more physical approach to solutions. Hunting Pinale, on the other hand, was definitely within their remit.

The Headmistress had promised to get the search underway; she had enough influence with the Ministry that he could almost certainly do so without raising much - if any - suspicion amongst the wizarding community. Those who knew Pinale would probably not be surprised, in any case. Draco Malfoy definitely would not be, for example.

Snape looked up from his clasped hands and nodded back to Hermione.

"Thank you. I thought we should leave tomorrow morning; there is little point in delaying. The Headmistress is making arrangements to cover both my classes and the search for Pinale. I would suggest that we leave tonight, but Madam Pomfrey will not hear of it." The last was said with a scowl and glower in the direction of the nurse; she appeared not to notice. "I will send an owl to Professor Lucier - he has already returned to Santiago, and will undoubtedly be able to assist us with access to the library at least.”

Hermione nodded again, still silent. Snape got to his feet.

"Goodnight, Hermione.”

That brought a quiet response; the potions were taking effect and she was almost asleep.

"Goodnight, Severus.”

He watched her eyes drift shut and then gave in to impulse, dropping a soft kiss on her forehead before he turned swiftly on one heel and strode out of the Infirmary, followed by the curious gaze of Madam Pomfrey. He didn't care.

The dungeons were cold and dark; a fire in the stove on the hearth of his bedroom began to dispel some of the clinging damp that crept back into the rooms whenever he was away overnight. Lamps were lit with a single word, and Snape seated himself at his desk to write the necessary letters. Some went by Floo, others by owl, and an hour later he finally stretched and went to bed. It had been more eventful a day than he preferred to have to suffer through now; he had hoped to have been done with ‘eventful’ seven years ago.

Early morning came swiftly, awakening him at dawn as the sun tinged the world with gold, dispelling the pale blues and violets of the shadows cast by the hills. Snape got up without much thought, following his usual routine. Packing was simple: he had a limited range of clothing, and five minutes was all that he needed to pack and reduce a case. With the case now tucked in his pocket he checked that he had all the papers they were likely to need and left, heading for the Infirmary.

Hermione was already awake when he arrived; he suspected she had been woken by curse pain and aches several times during the night, but she seemed much better this morning.

"Severus!" she exclaimed as he entered the room. "Can you convince Madam Pomfrey that I am perfectly alright to leave? She doesn't seem to want to believe me." Hermione's voice was almost, but not quite, a whine and Snape smirked. Her answering smile confirmed that she was exaggerating the tone. That alone did more to reassure him of her recovery than anything else.

Madam Pomfrey was staring disapprovingly, shaking her head.

"I only patched you up last night," she was saying. "You're hardly in a fit state to go gallivanting off all over the place," she sniffed. "Two cracked ribs, more bruises than skin, and curses and hexes embedded everywhere. You should be here for at least a week," she added. Her voice slipped to resignation, though, as she watched Hermione climb carefully out of bed.

"I thought we would leave immediately," said Snape. "We can get you anything you need in Santiago - you really don't want to return to your flat just now." Hermione winced.

"How bad was it?" she asked.

"At least as bad as you remember," said Snape. "Some of the house-elves have been dispatched to clear up. You'll be re-filing your books for days, but at least you won't have to pick them all up off the floor. I'm certain that Winky has no particular sense of the alphabet, but it is better than nothing," he added acerbically.

The dry comment earned him another smile and he held out his hand to her.

"Lucier replied this morning - he's recommended a corner of the university for us to apparate to. I know where it is, so I'll lead the way. The Headmistress will lower the wards in a moment, to allow us to leave without having to drag you all the way down to the gates. You'd better take my hand, to avoid getting splinched."

Hermione's hand was cool and strong in his, clasping his fingers lightly as they waiting for the signal that the wards were lowered. The flash of blue light in the grate of the Infirmary fireplace was all that Snape needed; a moment later, they stood in the cool shadows of a hot summer day in Santiago.

Lucier was waiting for them; Minerva had presumably told him when to expect them, and he greeted them effusively.

"Professor Snape, Doctor Granger, how good to see you again so soon - although I am sorry about the circumstances. How are you feeling, Doctor?"

Hermione nodded her thanks. "I am ... better than I expected to be feeling, thank you.”

In the short silence that followed, as each sought something to say, all that could be heard was the distant rumble of traffic and the chatter of students nearby. Finally, Snape spoke.

"We need to make some purchases first: and to find some accommodation, if the college has no spare rooms?" The last comment was a question for Lucier.

"That will be no problem - the students have already left for the summer, and we have plenty of space. I have allocated you two sets of rooms overlooking the cathedral - will that be appropriate?”

Snape nodded in appreciation.

"Very appropriate, thank you." Turning to Hermione he explained. "The rooms overlooking the cathedral form part of the Hotel de los Reyes Catolicos - the Muggles pay well for some of the rooms, but the Wizarding University here has a number for students. They need to be allocated by ballot - I wasn't lucky enough to get one in my year here.”

Lucier chuckled. "I remembered, so I thought you might appreciate it this time. Now, I will leave you to your purchases . You remember the town, do you not, Professor? Some things have changed, but the roads remain in the same place. Unlike your staircases at Hogwarts," he added, with the feeling of one who had been caught by a recalcitrant staircase at some time.

Snape and Hermione nodded their thanks and made their way out through the cool shade of the courtyard to the sunlit streets beyond; making their way through the maze of sunny and shaded streets, Snape brought them to a plaza with a number of clothes shops. He produced a wallet of euros and handed it to Hermione.

"Call it an advance on your publishing royalties or something: you will need some clothes. Shall I meet you back here in an hour?”

To his surprise, Hermione seemed hesitant. She stared at the floor, swallowed and then looked up at him again.

"I would rather not be on my own again just now, even in this crowd. Would you mind accompanying me?”

"No, not at all. Lead on.”

Hermione was, he thought thankfully, a quick and decisive clothes shopper; she apparently had a defined style and stuck to it. The only disconcerting moment, for Snape, was when she insisted on buying him a pair of black denim trousers: jeans. She refused to take no for an answer, so he found himself the owner of a pair of jeans for the first time in his life, having flatly refused to follow the Muggles’ trends when he was at university. He wore them now, his suit trousers in one of Hermione's bags. Her state of health had a lot to answer for; if she had not been so fragile, he would have been rather more able to refuse. He watched her carefully, noting the purpling circles under her eyes as she grew more tired. They would need to return to their rooms soon.

He also turned discreetly away as she purchased underwear. It brought images to mind that he was sure were inappropriate, because his reaction to the images would almost certainly destroy their friendship. Jeans were, he found, surprisingly tight.

Walking back from the clothes shops towards their rooms, Hermione stopped abruptly, turning to stare into the window of one of the shops that they had just passed. Snape took a couple more paces before he realised that she was no longer keeping pace with him and looked round to see what it was that she was looking at.

"Hunting for some souvenirs already?" he asked. "You can do better than those, anyway," he added as he saw the mass-produced rubbish in the window; Muggle plastic and plaster.”

Hermione looked livid and Snape stepped back; his comment had been curt, certainly, but surely nothing to make her angry with him? He realised a moment later that her anger was directed at whatever it was that had attracted her attention in the window.

"Insulting ... hopeless superstition ... how dare they?!" Hermione was spluttering incoherently and with some venom.

"What exactly are you objecting to, Doctor Granger?" drawled Snape, anticipating that the formality would make her realise what she was doing and where she was doing it. Already a few people had looked oddly at her as they passed; he thought she would not be particularly pleased to draw a crowd.

"Those!" Hermione was pointing into the window; Snape peered a little closer, then realised she was indicating a group of small dolls. 'Brujas de sorte', he read on the notice on front of them. Only an instinct for self-preservation stopped him from laughing at that moment. 'Lucky witches’.

"And what, precisely, is the problem? I would have thought you would be flattered," he said quietly, trying not to be heard by the passing tourists. "They seem to believe witches bring luck here. Certainly more enlightened than the British Muggles, surely?”

"It's not that!" snapped Hermione. "Look at them - the worst sort of stereotype, old women with warts and straw for hair! Not exactly flattering or representative, is it?”

"Oh, I don't know," drawled Snape. "They rather resemble some distant relatives of mine - very distant relatives," he added hastily as he saw a rather dangerous glint in Hermione's eyes. She narrowed her gaze at him but let the comment pass. As they turned away from the window to head on towards their rooms Snape spotted one particular doll; he wondered whether he could get away from Hermione later to come back to buy it. It was almost irresistible; a witch buried in books, described as the 'bruja estudiosa’. ‘The studious witch’.

The rooms were all that he remembered them being from his student days, and the reason he had wanted one then. White walls, high ceilings, and ornate heavy furniture scaled to suit the room. Snape worried for a moment that Hermione would find the bed too high up for comfort, if she had the same furnishings that he did, and then dismissed the concern. She was more than capable of finding a way to deal with it if necessary, without aggravating her injuries.

They met again for lunch in one of the small cafes that dotted the town, near to the university buildings. After toasted sandwiches and reassuringly lethal coffee, Snape led the way to the library close by. A dark green door set into a white wall and surrounded with a stone frame, the only clue as to the purposes of the building was in a series of metal letters set against the wall. ‘Biblioteca Xeral’. ‘General Library’.

Inside, the heat of the day was a distant memory; Hermione pulled out the sweater he had advised her to bring and slipped it on. They made their way through the ranks of shelves to the back of the library, passing through into the Restricted, wizarding, section with the password that Lucier had supplied.

****

Days passed in the library. Hermione was ecstatic with the books she found there, most of them uncatalogued and probably unread in centuries. As promised, an original of the _Rosarium_ was brought out for her to pour over. The nights were spent in quiet luxury in the rooms that Lucier had provided, and Hermione gradually recovered from Pinale's latest attack.

A few days after they had arrived, Snape surprised Hermione by insisting that they took a break, and apparated them away from Santiago. Given that she was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he was at least as much of a workaholic as she, his determination to make her take a break was confusing.

At least, it was confusing until she saw the beach for which he had dragged her from the library.

They soon sat at a cafe table at the edge of the esplanade, the art nouveau pillars on the colonnade casting shadows behind them. The sand before them was a pale tawny and lay almost undisturbed; it was too soon in the year for there to be many sunbathers, despite the heat of the sun. Summer was early this year. The wind still drove in from the ocean and only the rocks at the water's edge offered much in the way of shelter. A few, more hardy the rest - or perhaps they were tourists, for whom this was more summer than they ever saw at home - lay in the embrace of those rocks, hidden from the wind in the face of the sun

Snape's only concession to the day was to discard his jacket on the back of his chair and push the sleeves of his sweater up to his elbows. His forearms were a startling white against the black of his clothes and the sun-heated blistering steel of the table at which they sat.

Hermione had also draped her sweater over the back of her chair, and her short sleeved thin sweater meant that her arms too were bared to the sun. She noted, critically, that her arms were almost as pale as Snape's as she opened the notebook that she carried everywhere with her, flattening the pages against the breeze that curled through the esplanade and carried with it the characteristic tang of warm sand.

Hermione stared out at the advancing waves, only half hearing Snape order coffee and mineral water for both of them. The sun caught each wave as it rose and curled in on itself, sparkling with a shot silver as pure as that which they had created only days before. Hermione still found herself in awe of the purity of that metal; it had been as though she held a shard of pure light, all angles and almost unbearably beautiful. It had held her in such thrall that she had been nearly heartbroken to pull away from it, to submit that intensity once more to the fire and heat of the greater work.

The fisherman's quay at the edge of the water before them caught the edge of each wave as it sought the shore; spray was flung upwards, seeking and catching the sun in innumerable moments of light before falling to the flagstones below and, to Hermione's amusement, soaking the teenagers determinedly fishing for god alone knew what.

From the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Snape watch her as she watched the boys; she turned to him and smiled. He returned the smile, and Hermione hoped that the pleasure that shot through her was not entirely obvious.

"They must be after something particularly good, to withstand that soaking," she said, gesturing towards the quay. Snape followed her gesture, then looked around. A wry smile crossed his face.

"Or perhaps they have other quarry in mind." Hermione looked puzzled and he nodded in her direction. "Maybe they just want to impress that collection behind you," he drawled.

Hermione twisted round in her seat to look behind her, then laughed softly as she turned back to Snape.

"More than likely.”

At a table someway behind her sat a half dozen girls, in their mid-teens she thought, all animatedly talking and stealing glances at the boys on the quay.

"Would that impress you?" Snape's tone was that of idle conversation, soft over the clink of china and glass as the waitress delivered two small cups of coffee and a couple of bottles of water. Hermione glanced back at the quay.

"No," she said, amused. "Not now, and I don't think it would have impressed me ten years ago either. Now it's amusing, then I think I would just have thought them silly." She paused to stir her coffee with the cinnamon stick provided in lieu of a spoon, then added “Actually, I don't think it would have occurred to me that they might be doing it for my benefit. I was rather blind to that sort of display.”

Snape sipped at his water, having already dispatched his coffee with one swallow; Hermione would never understand how he could toss back that inch of intense darkness and tan cream, let alone how he managed it without sugar.

"And are you less blind to such displays now?" he asked.

Hermione looked out to the waves and smiled. "Probably not, although I don't think anyone's put on that sort of display for me since school.”

"Mr Weasley, I presume," came the amused comment.

Hermione buried her face in her hands, laughing. "Please don't tell me you noticed that as well?" At Snape's nod she groaned. "I think I was the only person who didn't notice. In the end, Harry had to tell me," she said, shaking her head.

"Weasley was prone to stupid antics, Hermione. I would have though that, after several years of extracting him from such things, it was unlikely to occur to you that he was finally doing it to impress you.”

Hermione laughed again. "True," she acknowledged.

"You mentioned, when we met in December, that you were no longer in contact with Weasley. Was it because of that particular incident?”

"Not entirely," mused Hermione as she thought back. "It was a bit embarrassing for a while but, in the end, we had drifted apart simply because we had nothing but school in common and that particular incident did nothing to improve matters. It was the same with Harry, although without the idiotic behaviour,” she added. "Once we left school it became clearer. There are only so many conversations I can tolerate about schooldays and, as I don't talk Quidditch and they have never shared my - um - enthusiasm for learning …”

"Their loss," commented Snape.

"Thank you," said Hermione, slightly surprised but raising her glass to him in a mock salute. "Anyway, I get the occasional plea from Harry when he wants a female point of view about something that's happened with his latest girlfriend, and the usual birthday cards but nothing more.”

"As I said, their loss.”

They were silent for a while then; Hermione finished her coffee, washing down the syrupy dregs with a sip of water. She played idly with the cinnamon stick, drawing patters in the crema that clung to the sides of the cup, random thoughts chasing through her mind as she relaxed in the sun.

"Odd," she said eventually, "how things change. Empires rose and fell for this," she held up the cinnamon stick, "and now it's used once to stir coffee and then discarded." Snape nodded, his eyes dark as he looked in her direction. They lapsed back into a comfortable silence.

The wind had dropped slightly and Hermione could now feel the sun hot on her arms. The warmth reminded her to mutter a quiet contra sol charm under her breath; she preferred not to have to spend the evening struggling with sunburn. Healing spells, she had discovered the hard way, did not entirely deal with the itching and they had no appropriate potions to ease it.

Snape looked round as he heard the whisper of her spell and raised an eyebrow in query; he had been watching the sea and, presumably, had only heard that she had spoken and not what she had said.

"A contra sol charm," she explained quietly. "The sun's strong, should you use one as well?" For a moment Hermione the thought of a Muggle sun lotion appealed, particularly with the unusual sight of Snape's bare forearms; she couldn't remember having seen anything but his hands and face before today and it was ... distracting. 

She pushed the thought away before she blushed too intensely to blame it on the sun; at last she understood why the Victorians had been so affected by the sight of an ankle. Without familiarity to dampen and suppress arousal, even something as prosaic as an arm revealed was enough to have heat wash through her if she allowed herself to think about it.

Snape shook his head, and gave an unexpected explanation. "I tan easily; a legacy of my mother's family.”

Hermione blinked in surprise; both at the idea that Snape, eternally pale, would tan at all and at the mention of his family. She had grown used to the fact that, unlike almost everyone else she knew, he never spoke of anything personal. She said nothing, wondering whether he would continue.

****

Another comfortable silence fell between them and Snape shifted slightly, relaxing further into the cafe chair. He had almost forgotten the pleasure he found in the touch of the sun; everyone who knew him assumed him to be ascetic, spurning comfort, and never saw - not that he allowed them to see - the hedonism that lay within him, albeit a rarely indulged hedonism that delighted in the warmth of the sun and fire and a few exquisite tastes and sensations. The last time he could remember simply sitting and enjoying the day like this was ... probably thirty years or more ago, when he was still a teenager.

The thought reminded him of the boys on the quay - he would have been about their age. He looked over to see the boys descending the steps of the quay now; their soaking seemed not to have been in vain, as two of the girls had left their table and were sauntering across the sand towards them.

He watched their progress, one hand above his eyes to shield the sun's glare, and wondered whether Hermione would be as impressed if he went to get soaked on the quay. He snorted with amusement at the idea; most likely she wouldn't anything other than that he had lost his mind. He needed a distraction, and her comments about avoiding sunburn were not helping. It was as well that he hadn't brought many potions with him; somewhere in his stores he had one that prevented sunburn. Unlike most potions it was applied, not ingested. The thought of ... assisting Hermione in applying it ... Snape stopped the thought in its tracks. It would, no doubt, resurface in his dreams that night but better than embarrassing him now. He needed to think about something else. Rapidly.

He started to speak, to provide himself with a distraction, and surprised himself - and Hermione, who was already obviously curious after that sound of amusement - by following his comment about his mother's family with a description of a farm here in Spain where he had spent a couple of summers as a small child. In retrospect, it was clear that his mother had been trying to spare him from his father, sending him to stay with family friends. His grandmother’s friend had been the village witch; the back country, away from the cities, still followed the old ways and incorporated them with a fierce Catholicism that proved itself flexible in these matters.

He spoke of endless summers below a densely blue sky; of the shade found under vine leaves and in the sun-warmed waters of a stone tank - filled each night from the bone-chilling cold streams that fell from the mountain above and warmed during the day before being released to irrigate the crops at dusk, when the sun could no longer burn the water from the land before it was absorbed.

Then, he remembered, afternoons spent picking unripened grapes and tossing them idly at leaves floating in the water of the tank; days spent exploring forests of pine and eucalyptus. The scent of a handful of eucalyptus leaves tossed into a fire would, even now, relax him faster than almost anything else he knew. The untainted memories of childhood spilled out, released by the warmth of the sun and Hermione's company. He found himself free now to talk about the child he had been allowed to be in that place for all too short a time, without regretting the man he had become.

Hermione listened to his memories in a companionable silence, her chin propped on her hand as she watched him speak; Snape lost himself in a haze of memories and the pleasure of her attention. Eventually the words fell away and they simply looked at each other for a long moment.

Snape leaned forwards slowly, not sure what it was that he was about to do but reassured as Hermione held his gaze; she bit her lower lip quickly and Snape inhaled sharply as it slipped from her teeth and glistened damply in the sun.

The endless moment was broken by the bustling of a waiter behind them, clearing a table. Snape released the breath he'd taken; Hermione smiled softly, a little ruefully, he thought. For a moment, Snape allowed himself to entertain the belief that perhaps she had wanted him to kiss her; that was, however, undoubtedly his unruly imagination at work. Snape turned to the waiter with a scowl, caught himself and simply asked for another coffee. He glanced at Hermione.

"Just some more water, thank you," she said. He ordered that as well and they lapsed back into silence again, watching the tide drawing in now, sluicing over the rocks at the water's edge. This silence seemed to Snape more charged than before, as though they were both waiting for something to happen. He sat up a little straighter in his chair and Hermione looked round at him. She started to say something but, before completing even the first syllable seemed to change what she wanted to say.

"Di - look at the kite over there; it's a day for that.”

Snape took the diversion gracefully and looked over to the right; above the beach some distance a way a kite, an almost luminous red, wheeled and darted in the sky. It plummeted now towards the sand; Hermione gasped just as it was pulled from the dive to skim neatly across the beach.

"Lucky," remarked Snape drily, although he rather thought it was more likely to be skill, given the stunts the kite was now being put through. Hermione looked sideways at him and smiled crookedly before taking up the challenge.

"Hardly luck, Severus," she retorted. "He seems to have it well under control," she added, obviously choosing to ignore that her gasp had suggested otherwise.

As he had intended, a gentle sparring discussion developed from that initial thrust and parry and they were soon immersed in a comparison of the best types of glass for alembics.

Hermione had shifted her chair closer to Snape's so that she could move away from the encroaching shade, and to draw some diagrams in the notebook that lay between them, illustrating something she was describing. Snape indulged himself and remained where he was, enjoying her closeness and the soft scent of her sun-warmed skin.

****

The sun had sunk considerably lower by the time Hermione stretched lazily in her chair, easing her back straight as she sat up. Her arm brushed Snape’s, an electric touch of skin. She thought he shivered, but dismissed that as her imagination just as she had dismissed the idea earlier that he was going to kiss her. Wishful thinking, or perhaps a touch of sun. Hermione closed her eyes, sighing softly at her thoughts and enjoying the warmth of the evening sun on her face.

When she opened her eyes a moment later, blinking a couple of times against the shadow of the sun, she saw Snape staring at her. She noticed, without really taking it in, that he did indeed tan; his face was tinged with gold, not all of it from the sun just now setting before them and setting the ocean alight in a blaze of fire.

Snape still looked at her, as though he could not bring himself to look away; Hermione almost dared not breathe, not wanting to disturb the awareness that spread through her. If she moved, if she spoke, he would look away - and she had never wanted anything less. Here, now, she could indulge in the illusion that he was as much in love with her as she with him.

The sun touched the ocean, a brilliant red that bathed everything before them; Snape's skin became a deeper gold, his eyes a glittering black that Hermione found herself immersed in. Arousal and awareness tightened with her until she was barely able to stop herself from gasping from breath. Still she dared not move.

Time raced, then slowed, and Hermione finally relaxed; Snape too seemed to relax, sighing and looking back out to sea as Hermione felt the taut awareness slacken into something familiar and comfortable. The edge remained, a subtle pull that no longer dominated her thoughts. She wondered again whether she was the only one who felt it. Sometimes Snape seemed to be sharing the same moment but she valued his friendship now too much to risk losing it over something that, in the end, she told herself that she could learn to live without.

The sun was now no more than a sliver of gold at the very edge of the world then, in an instant, even that was gone and darkness gathered from the east, bringing the night with it.

Snape sat up again, stretching lightly, unaccustomed to doing nothing. "Dinner?" he asked, turning back to her with the question. She suddenly realised that it was half past eight and became aware of an insistent hunger - this time for food. She nodded and they rose together to stroll back to the copse into which they had apparated.

****

Snape lay awake hours later, trying to think through the research that they had done that morning but able only to think of that afternoon at the beach. 

He was tantalized by the idea that Hermione had seemed as aware of him as he was of her; common sense told him to discard the thought. He was twenty years older than her, and had been her teacher. Neither issue bothered him; Hermione was more adult in some ways than women four times her age and he certainly did not think of her as a student; even in her last year at Hogwarts she had been nothing more than another annoying presence in a classroom, forgotten once through the doors. Other than members of his own house - whom he had to know for pastoral reasons, Snape found it easiest to ignore the individuals in the mass of students that flowed through his classroom. The woman he knew now shared little more than a name with that student, in terms of his knowledge and understanding of her, no matter how slight that understanding might sometimes be.

He fell asleep still trying to suppress the wishful thinking, but his dreams still ran free with ideas.

Next morning he was first to breakfast; Hermione followed a few minutes later - from the look on her face, her dreams had been more productive than his.

"I had an idea," she announced. "Santiago - he was an alchemist, wasn't he? And his acolytes were also alchemists?”

Snape nodded, wondering where Hermione was taking this.

"I couldn't sleep very well last night," she said, "so I started reading the tourist information in the room.”

"You must not have been able to sleep at all," said Snape drily. The tourist information provided for the hotel guests in the rooms was turgid and uninspired.

Hermione laughed. "Something like that - anyway, I saw a picture of something that looks useful." Snape nodded for her to continue. "Santiago's remains are in the cathedral, in a silver casket - there was a picture of it. I'm pretty sure the designs in the silver are alchemical symbols," she said in a rushed whisper. "I want to go and look at it today.”

That last demand, or request, depending on whose point of view was being consulted, meant that Snape found himself later that day kneeling in apparent prayer in the crypt of the cathedral of Santiago, with Hermione kneeling next to him. At her suggestion they had set a magnification charm to be able to read the symbols on the casket. They were indeed alchemical, rather than the abstract images that they appeared to be at a distance. Hermione was muttering under her breath, trying to memories the images. Snape, instead, worked to identify the pattern rather than the individual elements.

His knees ached after a while, and he eased up slightly. It was then that he noticed the priest staring at them from the doorway into the crypt. Snape nudged Hermione at that point, nodding subtly in the direction of the priest. She looked startled, presumably caught in mid-recitation.

They looked at each other for a moment, then decided that discretion was valuable in this case and got up to leave. As they turned, the priest spoke to them.

"Senor, senora. Thank you," he said. They looked at him, surprised. "It is rare to see a young couple so respectful and mindful of Santiago. May your marriage be long, happy and fruitful." Snape saw Hermione's eyes widen and she started to speak. He hurried to speak over her.

"Thank you, Father." He turned and left, almost dragging Hermione with him before she could say anything else.

They slowed down as they headed for the exit and the library. Snape braced himself for a barrage of questions which never came. Instead, Hermione laughed.

"Thank you," she said. "I would have made a complete fool of myself just then.”

"I doubt that very much," was his only answer.

The casket had, after all, given them the answers they needed - Hermione almost danced with joy when she realised that it confirmed her own thoughts and interpretation of the process needed for the Stone. She wanted to rush back to Oxford and Hogwarts to start the greater work, impatient to continue with it.

Snape was less inclined to go hurrying back; he enjoyed Hermione's company and was selfish enough not to want to share it with the rest of the faculty at Hogwarts - she had, at least, accepted that she needed to live at Hogwarts for now. His wishes, however, were not his to indulge and so they returned soon after to the school.

Hermione was adamant that they continue both processes, at Hogwarts and at Oxford. She wanted to confirm the reactions of both works. Snape could find no reason to disagree - it was still the summer holidays, and he had little to do other than his own projects; these had been put aside to allow him to concentrate on finding a way to defeat what he believed Voldemort's plans to be and, just now, he had no reason to resuscitate them.

The greater work began on a clear hot August day, with the addition of mercury to the white powder; the reaction immediately turned a bright violet before shading into a blue that mirrored the sky outside.


	6. Iron

_Iron - or Mars - is the lowest point of the process, the active descent of the spirit to the lowest levels of human consciousness so that the body itself is penetrated completely by sulphur. This is the outermost coagulation - the spirit appears entirely submerged within the body._

* * *

A rolling chorus of bells announced the start of morning services all over Oxford; a pleasant cacophony that rang for almost ten minutes and confirmed the haphazard attitude towards timekeeping that sometimes seemed to be a defining characteristic of the University.

Hermione was working in the laboratory at Oriel again; Snape had enforced her wards with his own, to give her time to work there. Snape himself had had to return to teach now that term had started again, and could no longer work with her each day. Despite the time that had passed since they had begun this second stage of the work, little progress seemed to have been made. A stack of books was piled on her desk, testament to the seemingly endless research that she had buried herself in to try to find what was missing; what step they needed to take to ensure that the work went forward.

It was frustrating; she knew that they were close to the end of the process, that little more was needed to transform the unprepossessing material lying apparently inertly in the glass vessel beside her. Her notes had catalogued a perfect series of transformations since she had steeped the brilliant white material in mercury; from the first deep violet on contact with the mercury, through a cerulean blue and now its present orange red. More mercury made no difference; the fire was set. All that she needed now was for the material to become pure red, to achieve the lacque of the Philosopher's Stone.

She stared at it, almost willing it to transform. She had found nothing - no clue, no suggestion - to indicate what was needed. In fact, all she had found merely confirmed her earlier research. They had done everything, fulfilled each of the steps demanded by the mediaeval alchemists who had gone before then.

And still the Stone refused to emerge.

Hermione was beginning to take it personally, despite all her attempts to rein in her temper. A knock on the door was almost enough to nudge her into anger; it was undoubtedly the idiot porter again, demanding to know what she was doing in the room. Oriel had taken on a new head porter recently, an Army retiree in the worst tradition of that breed: a busybody who appeared to take his appointment as a free licence to investigate everyone and everything in the college. He saw Hermione's refusal to allow him into the room as an affront to his authority, inflated though it was by his own opinion. Her insistence that he did not have clearance to view the room did not mollify him particularly; he seemed to be of the opinion that she was referring to security clearance and kept making unsubtle attempts to convince her that he had been part of military intelligence in his time in the army.

Hermione had been hard-pressed not to laugh at his claims, and kept the door firmly closed against his endeavours to look in. The windows were charmed to reflect anyone peering through: the effect was the same as that of a Muggle film applied to glass, so no-one thought it strange that they saw only themselves in their curiosity.

The man reminded her, in the end, of Filch. All he lacked was a cat of dubious origin and the cavalier attitude towards personal hygiene. She was convinced that he was waiting to pounce on her and haul her before the Dean on some charge or another. He had not taken news of her doctorate well, and she had taken a rather sadistic pleasure in correcting him when he had called her 'Miss Granger' for the first time after her viva. His response had been a muffled grunt, and a grudging reference to her as 'Doctor Granger' thereafter. Fortunately, unlike Filch, the man kept to strict working hours and Hermione generally managed to time her visits to college to avoid him.

The knock came again, more impatiently. Not the porter then, thought Hermione. A memory of Pinale flashed across her mind, but she rather thought that knocking was not quite his style. She wasn't expecting visitors and, on a Sunday morning, was not inclined to open the door to anyone she wasn't expecting. She ignored the knocking, tuning out the muffled thud of knuckle on wood and turned again to her books and the translation of the _Rosarium_ that she had painstakingly written out in the depths of the library stacks at Santiago.

Lost in thought - recalling the translation, the dust and the sunlit cafe that had been her reward - she was startled by a quiet voice in her ear; it made her shiver inwardly, a sarcastic velvet purr.

"Do you ever plan to answer the door, Doctor Granger?"

Hermione looked wildly round the room, searching for Snape as it was undoubtedly his voice. There was no-one there, and she shook her head. Conjuring up his voice was pleasant, certainly, but surely her imagination could have come up with something more ... no, she thought. Better not follow that idea through.

"Hermione," the voice came again, sharply. "Open the damned door!"

This time Hermione laughed; she had been far too lost in books if she had forgotten the possibilities of a projection charm. Just to be certain, she flicked a spell from her wand to the door. It faded to a ghostly image, allowing her to see the person waiting on the other side.

He was definitely impatient, arms folded as he stared at the door. Hermione's smile widened as he scowled and spoke again, almost snarling.

"I know you are in there; just looking at me through the door is not going to be much help to you. Although it is to be commended, since it seems you have learnt your lesson."

Hermione crossed the room, unlocking the wards as she went. The physical lock on the door was last, opened with a key that she took from the mantelpiece.

"At last, Doctor Granger. How kind of you," was the greeting she received. "Now, close up again. You're coming with me, there is something that needs our attention and I refuse to deal with it before I've had some breakfast."

Hermione found herself following the order automatically, and checked herself halfway through re-warding the room.

"Where are we going?" she demanded. "And how did you know I was checking through the door?"

"I didn't," admitted Snape, completing the re-warding for her. "It seemed a reasonable supposition as you are not entirely stupid. And we are going somewhere that does a better breakfast than the cold toast and anaemic coffee that is all that Oxford colleges seem able to provide."

Hermione laughed again, pulled out of her earlier internal fury at their lack of progress. It simmered still, in the background, but for now she was content to enjoy an early autumn quiet Sunday in Oxford. Her companion merely added to her enjoyment. He had clearly planned to take her out, dressed in the Muggle clothes that she had counselled him to try some weeks ago when they had been discussing the difficulties of passing for a Muggle. The black jeans she had bought him in Spain and a black turtleneck sweater which looked to be cashmere, and Hermione longed to bury her face in it. Cashmere had always been a weakness of hers; and cashmere on Snape was ... no, she wasn't going to follow that thought. Not now, anyway.

"Was the tea as indistinguishable from the coffee in your day, then?" she asked as they headed across the High Street and onto the cobbles around the Radcliffe Camera. Snape had checked his stride as they rounded the corner of the University Church, apparently becoming aware that Hermione was having some difficulty keeping up with his longer legs.

He made a noise that could have been laughter or disgust, and his reply made it no clearer which he had intended. "The only discernable difference was that tea apparently had a bag floating in it; the house-elves had picked up that atrocious Muggle habit from somewhere. The inevitable disadvantage of maintaining an establishment in the middle of a town; I assume from your comments that they have not improved in the meantime?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, it's still the same. Mystery drinks and bendy cold toast; I've never understood what they do to the toast to make it bend like that." That did provoke laughter, although it was short-lived. Snape seemed to have something on his mind, distracting him now from the conversation. Hermione noticed that he was carrying something; it looked like a copy of the Daily Prophet. Her copy would no doubt have arrived at home after she had left this morning.

They emerged from the shadows of the Bodleian into Broad Street, crossing the wide road to pass by Trinity and Balliol as the colleges stood silent in the Sunday morning sunshine. It was too early in the day for the students to be about, and too late in the year for many tourists to stand, blocking the pavements, and gawp at the sun-drenched sandstone, shimmering gold in the autumn light.

Hermione followed Snape, wondering where he was going but perversely refusing to ask, as it would undoubtedly generate nothing more than a sarcastic comment about impatience. Once past another church, the road widened out into the vast expanse of St Giles. Dodging a couple of taxis, they crossed over. As they passed the Oxfam bookshop, Hermione craned her head round to see what was on display in the window, but caught nothing more than a flash of colours before almost colliding with Snape, who had stopped abruptly in front of a small shopfront. She caught herself just in time, automatically looking up to see where they were.

The St Giles' Cafe.

Hermione frowned as she looked into through the windows. "Is this a wizarding place, like the Leaky Cauldron? I don't think I've seen it before."

Snape shook his head as he opened the door; a bell chimed inside the cafe. "No, it's as Muggle as they come; it's just not very visible. It does, however, do the best breakfast in Oxford."

The cafe was busy, but there was a table vacant by the window. Snape gestured towards it, and told Hermione to take a seat whilst he ordered. He asked her whether she would prefer tea or coffee, but refused to let her look at the menu.

"You'll pick something like toast, which would make a mockery of this place. I'll deal with the order." There was something of a smirk on his face and in his tone, and Hermione was sorely tempted to either slap him or kiss him. Neither would have been a particularly good move.

The smirk disappeared when Snape seemed to suddenly realise he had been carrying the newspaper with him. He dropped it on the table as he turned to go to the counter to place the order.

"Read this," he said over his shoulder as he went. His voice was grim.

Hermione picked up the paper; at first glance, it appeared to be the business section of the Observer. She smiled: her father had always bought the Observer on a Sunday, and it brought back memories of her childhood. She was, though, curious as to why Snape was carrying around that particular paper. She looked again, though, and realised that the appearance was nothing more than a charm. When she studied the paper more carefully, she saw the Daily Prophet, and the usual garish headlines screaming of incompetence and mishandling at the Ministry. Nothing new there, and certainly nothing to make Snape sound like that. She flipped through the pages and then, several pages into the paper, suddenly found the article he must have been referring to.

"Voldemort: losing grip on reality?" was the headline, and the article was tucked into a corner of the page.

"The aurors guarding Voldemort have reported that the captive's behaviour has changed surprisingly of late. Followers of this newspaper will remember that Voldemort appeared to be reacting to his imprisonment by lapsing into coma," Hermione snorted at that exaggeration and misunderstanding, "but now it would appear that he has finally understood the implications of the prison which he is kept. He appears frustrated and has become increasingly violent once more - although, of course, he cannot cast spell or curses in the wards in which he is kept - and has attempted to harm both himself and his warders. He has been unsuccessful, but it is perhaps only a matter of time. Voldemort has no wand, but we should not underestimate him." Well, that was true, certainly. The rest of the article consisted of rent-a-quotes from the psychiatric expert at St Mungo’s, pontificating about the effects of imprisonment and magic deprivation, claiming that he had predicted all along that this would be Voldemort's reaction to imprisonment. Hermione, however, distinctly remembered an article some months ago, reporting Voldemort's "coma", in which the same expert (and she thought the term was used rather loosely) had stated that he had predicted that Voldemort would be unable to cope with imprisonment, taking the coma as proof that his prediction had come true.

A white cup, balanced on a saucer, appeared in front of her; Snape slid into the seat opposite her and placed his own cup on the table, tucking a slip of paper between the salt and pepper bottles. It had a number scrawled on it, presumably that of their breakfast order.

Hermione looked up from the paper. "Well," she said, "it looks as though the lack of progress we're making isn't a problem after all. We may as well scrap the work - annoying, but there's no point in continuing. Voldemort's clearly not getting anywhere, or he wouldn't be taking it out on the warders."

Snape stared at her, then shook his head. "I take it back. You are stupid, Doctor Granger. It is imperative we complete the work: I assume you are no further forward in your research?"

Hermione felt herself flush red, then white with anger at his cavalier dismissal of her. "How dare you?" she hissed. "Don't tell me you think Voldemort suspects you know what's planning? How arrogant can you get? I doubt the ... creature ... even knows you still exist and certainly doesn't care if he does. I certainly don't plan to do any further research until I have concrete proof that it is needed."

Her reply was all hot air and fury: Hermione had no intention of stopping work on the Stone. Having got this far, she wanted to see it through to the end despite her suggestion that they scrap it. She was too much the academic, too curious, to stop now and had been simply saying what she thought Snape wanted to hear. But his casual attack on her intelligence had brought back the fury that had been bubbling through her before he knocked on the laboratory door.

"You're talking about murder," she said heatedly, cutting across Snape's attempts to speak. "This is revenge, nothing more. You want to repay him for everything you feel you suffered because of your mistakes when you were too young to know better."

They fell silent just as a number was called from the counter at the back of the cafe. Snape grimaced and got up to fetch two plates; he put them down none too gently on the table when he returned.

"Thanks," muttered Hermione, staring at the plate and wondering whether he had ever paid any attention to her on the occasions they had eaten together. The quantity of food that faced her suggested not; a full English breakfast. Sausages, bacon, eggs, toast, baked beans and chips. If she hadn't already been feeling nauseous from the harsh exchange of words, this food would have been enough to make her so.

****

Snape sat back on the bench and looked fixedly out of the cafe windows, watching the few pedestrians hurrying by, each on their way to an appointment with church, or a friend, or the pub.

He ignored the plate in front of him; the hunger that had been insistent only minutes earlier had now vanished. The bench was jostled as someone got out of the seat behind him, and Snape became aware that Hermione was staring fixedly at her plate. The contrast to their last trip to a cafe together, only a few weeks ago, could not have been more marked.

Snape drew in a deep breath; his face twisted into a bitter scowl, directed at himself. He had no right to take out his frustrations on Hermione. It insulted both of them for him to accuse her of stupidity, and the only excuse he could offer was habit. It wasn't sufficient. She wasn't his student, to be cowed into obedience. She deserved better - better than he could provide.

Still, none of that meant that he could ignore what he had said. An apology would not mean an acceptance of her own heated accusations; he would defend himself against the charge of murder for as long as necessary. To do otherwise was to underestimate Voldemort, and Snape was absolutely certain that the Ministry was underestimating him quite enough. The article did, as Hermione had noticed, suggest that the creature that was Voldemort was not being as successful as he would wish, but that wasn't the same as not being successful at all. Without completing the Stone, they would never know.

Snape decided to try something new: he thought he should suggest a compromise. Whilst he could continue the work of creating the Stone, it would be slower and less certain than Hermione's involvement would make it. He reached across the table and put his hand slowly onto Hermione's, calling her attention to him and desperately needing to touch her. He was fairly sure his touch would not be welcome - and he had no illusions that she would ever want him to touch her - but he needed that connection just at this moment, the reassurance that she hadn't completely shut him out.

Hermione looked up, a startled glance at him swiftly covered by an impassive face. She did not, though, pull her hand from under his. Snape was distracted by that for a moment, by the warmth of her hand, the softness of her skin, under his fingers and palm. The impassivity gave way to a quizzical look as Snape struggled to compose his thoughts again; it took a short while, but he forced his thoughts back to the immediate problem between them.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, “my comment was uncalled for; it was also grossly untrue. I ..." he paused, phrasing his next sentences carefully.

"I do not believe that what I contemplate is murder; I believe that Voldemort has been set back but it is not in the nature of the ... person ... that I knew for him to give up. Please consider continuing with the process. I would suggest that, once we have the Stone, we use the power of the Stone to check his progress; if I have read your notes correctly, we should know that at least. We can make the decision to go ahead, or not, with the plan once we have that information."

Snape spoke quietly and with intensity, struggling to make sure that Hermione understood what was driving him. Once he had finished, he waited, still resting his hand on hers, for her to respond. She looked at him for a long time, chewing her lower lip and rubbing her thumb against the table, under his hand. Around them, the hubbub of the cafe continued and people came and went through the door. Someone else sat on the bench behind him, and Snape was jostled once more. Through all this, his eyes were caught and held in Hermione's gaze. He barely breathed, waiting for her reply.

Eventually she nodded.

"Very well. We'll check, but we will not kill him unless it is truly self-defence; it may be pre-emptive, but it has to be self-defence."

Snape breathed a sigh of relief and nodded slowly.

"Understood."

The tension between them had peaked and snapped in that short exchange now; Snape was aware of Hermione still, but it was a more comfortable and familiar awareness: the one he had lived with for some time now, not the uncomfortable fight that had bound them and forced them apart just now. He lifted his hand from hers, feeling the cold on his palm and fingers where the warmth of her hand had been.

Looking back down at the plate, the hunger that had vanished at Hermione's fury returned. The friendship had not been irreparably harmed; he had not, by merest luck, managed to destroy a relationship that was ultimately more important to him than any other had been, no matter how it played out between them in the years to come. She was precious to him, a centre that encircled him.

Hermione seemed equally to breathe more easily, and she picked up a fork and poked experimentally at the plate in front of her; at that cue, courtesy allowed him to eat and Snape set about doing justice to the cafe breakfast.

The meal passed largely in silence; Hermione flipped her way through the other articles in the Daily Prophet and Snape amused himself by listening to the chatter of the other patrons of the cafe. Most were graduate students, in Oxford permanently but no more adult than they had been as undergraduates. The conversations polarised - half were discussions of the exact level of drunkenness achieved (and in some cases still maintained from) the night before. The other half were attempts to impress - either a girlfriend or a contemporary - with half-understood ideas and repeated commentary cribbed from the ‘culture' pages of a newspaper. It had been exactly the same when he was at college: the need to talk, to communicate, to validate one's existence by the words uttered. That, more than anything else, he valued in Hermione: that they could be silent together.

Eventually the newspaper was put away, and Hermione's plate was pushed away with more food left than eaten. Snape suddenly remembered how little she normally ate, and almost apologised again for having bought her too much food: but two apologies in half an hour was unnatural. The last thing he wanted was for Hermione to suspect how he felt about her. Her pity would be unbearable; at least now he still had some dignity preserved.

They left the cafe, relinquishing their seats to a collection of students who had been hovering hopefully. Still in silence, they crunched through the leaves that were beginning to fall already; autumn had come early. They had crossed back over St Giles and were walking past the ancient, heavy, doors of St Johns College when Hermione finally spoke.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly.

Snape frowned.

"You have nothing to apologise for."

"Yes I do. I had no reason to accuse you of murder; I may not know everything about you but I think the past few months - if nothing else - have given me some idea of the way you think. You have too much honour to murder." Her cheeks were red, although Snape could not tell whether this was from embarrassment or the cold.

"You credit me with more morals than I would. Nonetheless, apology accepted." Snape shook his head. "If we had not returned from Santiago just a few weeks ago, I would have said that we needed a break from all this. Perhaps we do, regardless of how little time as elapsed since then. This last piece of work has been more difficult than all the rest. The lack of any result - even the wrong result - is wearing; the effect is even more tiresome than Mr Longbottom was. At least I knew to expect something from him."

Hermione laughed at the mention of the inept student; precisely the aim that Snape had hoped to achieve. "Term has just started, you must have a student somewhere in the school that rivals Neville?"

Snape shook his head. "Nobody rivals Mr Longbottom: not even Mr Longbottom himself these days, I understand. I believe that he redefined the term late-bloomer." Hermione laughed again, and Snape relaxed a little more at the sound.

They crossed the streets, drawing deeper into the centre of Oxford, with traffic lights winking red and amber and green as they passed. Cyclists flashed past, dicing with the few cars that dared to brave the rigours (and cost) of Oxford parking. Buses rumbled by, squeezing through narrow roads, some sharing with all and sundry the fiction of the bored guides who spent their days shouting through microphone and answering questions, from the educated to the inane.

Swallowed up by the streets behind the Covered Market, Snape was suddenly surprised by a shout. Hermione turned round, startled. Half-running towards them was the idiotic young man who had interrupted them in the laboratory several months ago.

"Hermione!"

They stopped and he caught up, panting.

"Just saw you ... having lunch with the others ... come and join us!" His conversation was staccato with the effort of recovering himself. Hermione looked indecisive; Snape wondered why she would even choose to go, given her experiences in college. When she agreed, nodding, the only thought that came to his mind was that she must want to show them how little they had actually achieved in her. Intellectual bullying had tamed only her show of knowledge, not her knowledge itself.

"Good, good - come on then, Hermes," said the young man. He suddenly seemed to realise that Snape was there and halted abruptly. "Oh. I am sorry. Uhh - would you care to join us as well?"

That second invitation was rather less enthusiastic than the first, and Snape stifled the urge to shudder at the idea of lunching with several people all the same as this ... this ... he couldn't remember the boy's name. Even if he was not already full from a late breakfast, he was fairly certain he would have been unable to contemplate lunch in such surroundings.

"No, that's quite alright. Hermione, are you sure?" The last comment was said in an undertone to Hermione. She nodded, and replied.

"I'll be fine, don't worry. It's just lunch and I'll be back at the lab in an hour. I'm only going for a drink, breakfast was quite enough food for one day."

"Excellent; you'll know everyone there. Let's go."

Hermione walked off with the boy. Carl, remembered Snape suddenly. His name was Carl. They headed off ahead, vanished off in the general direction of Brasenose. Snape felt slightly uneasy as he watched them pull away from him, walking faster than his rather idle stroll. He turned over thoughts in his mind, watching his step on the uneven road and trying to isolate what it was that was making him uneasy. He thought it was something to do with Carl - not his invitation, nor even his appearance, but something to do with the boy himself.

Snape walked on, watching but not seeing the grey cobbles beneath his feet until he suddenly realised what it was that made him uneasy. He broke into a run at the realisation; his concern might be completely misplaced but he preferred, in this situation, to look a fool rather than allow Hermione to be attacked. It was Carl's voice and phrasing. He had not once said "of course", and he had had at least as much opportunity as he had created in his monologue, which had been punctuated liberally with the phrase, when they first met. It was a tiny detail, but enough to convince him that Hermione was in trouble.

Mentally cursing himself for not going with them, Snape reached a crossroads between colleges and a row of small stores. Looking wildly around, he saw no sign of Hermione until a cry and a sound like a sharp crack reached him. Someone had been cursed, not very far away. Fear for Hermione heightened senses that years of making potions had already honed well, and Snape took off running again in the direction of the sound.

Dodging through a heavy set of college gates and past a number of startled students, Snape caught himself just before he dashed headlong into a small courtyard outlined by three ancient buildings and a small garden beyond. He sidled through the entrance, keeping himself tucked behind the pillars of the encircling colonnade as far as possible.

There were three people in the courtyard; Hermione, Carl and a tall figure in black flowing robes. Carl stood apart, staring blankly at the scene before him.

"Imperio," muttered Snape to himself. Obvious, but effective: Pinale must have been controlling the boy from a vantage point, waiting for them to come past. Like trusting fools, they had allowed themselves to be caught, although Snape wondered how long Pinale had been watching them, waiting for this opportunity.

Snape was aware that he was trying to dissociate himself from the view of the furthest corner of the flagstone-covered courtyard. A view he needed to push to the back of his mind if he was to have any hope of defeating Pinale. Hermione lay in a corner, shivering and shuddering in an all-too-familiar spasming. Over her stood Pinale, his wand pointing down at her.

"Hermione, Hermione ... why do you insist on making this so difficult? You know that I know all about it; just surrender to the inevitable. It will make things so much easier, you know."

Pinale had a cruelly soft voice, honed for a subtle threat in the edge of each unremarkable word. Snape edged around the pillar, working silently to get a clear aim at the madman. The soft sandstone scraped against his hands as he steadied himself against it.

"Ignitus Nervus.”

Snape's voice carried clearly across the still space, bounded by three windowless walls and open to the colonnades that surrounded it, a garden beyond the low wall that formed the fourth boundary, and the sky above. 

Pinale twisted around, shock giving way to pain in his expression as the fire of the hex spread through him from the point on his back where it had hit. Snape knew from experience that it would be enough to slow him down: it was the only advantage he was likely to get.

"Snape," he bit out angrily. "You never knew when to stop meddling. Expelliarmus!" He shouted the last word, but Snape had prepared for it and blocked the pull easily.

"Did you learn nothing in your duelling practices, Pinale?" he drawled, attempting to taunt the older wizard into a mistake. As Pinale's face darkened red, Snape took advantage of his moment's distraction and shot another hex toward him.

"Everto.”

Another quiet but effective curse; Pinale twisted away from the white light that arced across the space between them, but it caught his leg with a sharp wrenching effect and mangled it effectively. Pinale spat a series of curses at Snape, almost incandescent with rage at the sudden reversal in power. Hermione was forgotten as he concentrated on aiming at Snape.

Snape carefully dodged between the pillars, leading Pinale away from Hermione; he aimed a final curse at Pinale, steeling himself for the words and the inevitable inquisition that would follow.

"Avada K-"

He was interrupted by a howl of rage from Pinale, who fired a final hex - Snape didn't know what - at Hermione and released Carl in the same breath as he ran for the garden beyond the courtyard. Snape was only a matter of yards behind him, with a longer stride.

****

Hermione watched, horrified, as Snape took off after Pinale, vaulting the low wall into the garden and stumbling as he hit the ground. He was injured, she realised suddenly. Pinale had to be incapacitated - why else would he run rather than apparate - but he still had his wand and his last hex still burnt through her painfully as a reminder that he was more than able to use it.

That pain was nothing compared to this, though; Pinale reminded her of a wounded animal, profoundly more dangerous and vicious than one freely able to defend itself. He had already demonstrated that he was well able to use the killing curse, and Hermione found herself numb with fear for Snape.

A whimper caught her attention; Carl was standing in the middle of the courtyard, clearly terrified by what had been done to him. She wasn't surprised; Imperio was hard to deal with when you were used to it; to a Muggle it must have been even harder to understand. She cast Obliviate discreetly and he wandered away, heading back into college with an air of distraction. 

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. He had been useful - she had realised rapidly that he was being controlled, because he had just not sounded like Carl - although she had miscalculated his actual value to her. Tired of the chase, of being prey to Pinale's hunt, she had stepped into the trap with an over-confidence that she had not believed herself still to be capable of. Ill-founded confidence, obviously. 

Pinale had cursed her before she had any time to attack him, and she had subsided into a pained and aching mass of abused nerves to lie before his quiet litany of insanity. All she had done was to give Snape the perfect opportunity to make snide remarks about Gryffindor bravado. Snape ... she allowed herself to think again, to realise that he had gone after Pinale alone and, wounded, Pinale had little to lose. She had everything to lose.

Hermione realised she was shaking badly, and about to fall over. She struggled into the garden, to ease onto a bench, the slats hard beneath her legs. She was aching badly but only dimly aware of it. She stared blankly at the point where Snape had disappeared from sight, trying to sort the impulse to run after him - not knowing where he, or Pinale, had run to. The minutes dragged past like hours until a hoarse scream and the unmistakable green flash of a curse echoed together from one of the college quadrangles to her left. Hermione tried to stand and fell back to the bench; burying her face in her hands, shaking with tears and an un-named terror until she felt emotions flee her. No fear, no pain, just an overwhelming sense of loss and despair.

She didn't know how long she sat there, staring at the ground and waiting for Pinale to find her now. Part of her knew she should try to run but she found herself completely unable to move until a pair of black boots stepped into her line of sight.

Hermione caught her breath, convinced for a moment that she was hallucinating. She looked up, following the long legs encased in black denim and gave a hiccup - half laughter and half sob - at the memory of persuading him to buy the jeans so many weeks earlier.

A black turtleneck, equally familiar, and a hand reaching out to her. His face, concerned, was clearly uncomfortable; whatever had happened, something had hit him, but his face was infinitely perfect to her even with a scowl of pain warring with what she thought was concern.

Hermione stood unsteadily, shocked at the anger that suddenly flooded through her. The fury in her voice as she spoke startled her and Snape, who took a half step back.

"Don't you ever leave me behind like that again. Who did you think would protect you against that ... that madman? Don't try and tell me you could take him on alone; he's insane and there's no way you could know what he was capable of!"

As she whispered harshly, she drew her hand back to hit Snape, to drive her point through literally as fear-soaked adrenaline spiked through her.

Her hand never made contact with his face. Somewhere in the eternity between one moment and the next, between two emotions, she had reached up and pulled him into a kiss so deep that she forgot to breathe. Her senses were filled with him, and only him : his taste, of coffee and something both darker and sweeter; the scent of him, a subtle tang that surrounded her now; the harsh rise and fall of his chest under one hand and the soft brush of his hair against her fingers as her other hand held him to her at his nape.

Snape had frozen when she reached for him and Hermione was about to pull back, mortified, when he relaxed suddenly and deepened the kiss, his arms going round her to draw her more closely against him, enfolding her to his warmth as though he would never let go. His thumb traced small circles along her spine as he lazily explored her mouth, tasting her as she tasted him. Hermione shivered with a fierce pleasure.

****

Tired and aching, exhausted by the effort of defending himself and dodging Pinale's curses until the older wizard had stumbled and fallen, Snape had dodged behind a pillar of the colonnade in which they fought before Pinale could find him again. There was silence as Snape listened, straining to hear from where he would again be attacked and swearing at the pain and weakness in his left knee where one of Pinale's earlier curses had hit him.

He was drawn out in the end by screams from the area below the colonnade - he had chased Pinale up a flight of stairs to reach this area above one of the many college gardens in the area. Snape had thought that Pinale had merely stumbled to the floor, or perhaps dropped the few feet to the gardens below in order to circle round behind him. He looked cautiously down into the gardens, searching for the source of the screams: he thought perhaps Pinale had taken a hostage to force him to show himself.

A moment's search showed the reason for the screams, and confirmed that Pinale would no longer be a danger to Hermione or anyone else. The garden was edged by spiked railings, and Pinale had failed to dodge these as he fell. It was a curiously anticlimactic ending to a life filled with petty hate and self-aggrandizement.

Snape left the area quickly and silently, anxious both to return to Hermione and to avoid having to deal with explanations and investigations. He retraced his steps to the garden where he had left Hermione, finding her sitting on a bench with a look of utter devastation on her face.

As he stood in front of her, about to touch her shoulder to alert her to his return, she looked up and an array of emotions twisted across her face before she settled for anger and spat an incoherent stream of agony at him. Snape took an involuntary step back at the expected attack but held there at when he saw that there were tears in her eyes; she had been afraid for him.

He had no time for that realisation to sink in before he found himself caught and held by a hand that he had been sure would hit him; Hermione's mouth met his. Disbelief froze him for long moments filled with her touch and taste. Only when she stiffened and began to pull away did he find himself able to move again; he swiftly pulled her to him in a tight embrace, revelling in her now in his arms, and tentatively kissing her back. He was uncertain whether she had been pulling back because of his initial lack of response or because she had realised what she was doing and wanted no more of it. Regardless, here and now, he needed more and needed to know …

Snape almost sagged to the bench with relief when he felt Hermione nestle against him, fitting herself to him and opening her mouth to his exploration. She had been chewing a mint earlier, he thought as he tasted the characteristic tang.

Hermione pressed closer still and he splayed his hands across her back to hold her in place. The gardens, the traffic and the people passing by had all faded into an awareness of Hermione - only Hermione. His thumb found the dip in her spine that caught his attention whenever she stretched and rubbed at her back when they had worked too long. He rubbed gently there, easing some of the tension he still left in her. Hermione shuddered and grew more tense; Snape almost stopped and then almost laughed when he realised he had misunderstood the reason for that tension.

The impulse to laugh was lost in the wash of sensations: relief and arousal and pleasure and the taste of scent of her. She was returning his exploration now, her tongue darting into his mouth then lingering softly as though learning his taste.

The kisses grew slower and they eased themselves back to an awareness of their surroundings. Snape became conscious of a heaviness settling and pulsing against the denim he wore; he would need a moment or two before - he exhaled shakily as Hermione chose then to wriggle against him with a soft laugh. She was obviously as aware of his condition as he was.

"I had in mind somewhere rather more private," he admitted, as he tried to put some distance - not too much - between them. Hermione looked up at him with delight dancing in her eyes.

"That sounds ... pleasant," she said.

"Mmm," was his incoherent response before he cleared his throat. "I would suggest, then, that you might prefer to allow some distance. Or it will be some time before I am in any - ah - condition to go anywhere." Hermione quirked an eyebrow at him - when had she picked up that mannerism? - but stepped back, wincing as she did so. Snape cursed himself for forgetting that she had been caught by more than one of Pinale's hexes and curses.

"Are you alright?" he asked urgently. Hermione looked startled, then seemed to realise why he was asking.

"Yes, fine. A bit sore but that'll pass soon enough - what about you? I saw the curse ..." she broke off momentarily, her voice hoarse, then continued. "He didn't get you, did he?"

Snape shook his head, stifling the automatic retort that she was stating the obvious. Instead, he drew her back to the bench; they both sat down, he rather gingerly as he took care not to add any pressure to that slowly subsiding between his legs.

He saw Hermione cast a quick glance at the source of that discomfort, her lip caught in her teeth. He noticed that her mouth was reddened and slightly swollen. Between her glance and her mouth, Snape shifted uncomfortably as he reminded himself to exchange the jeans for something looser as soon as he could.

To distract himself - and draw Hermione's attention away from his probably all-too-obvious erection, arousing though that attention was - he took off his jacket and settled it in his lap. Hermione smiled knowingly, and he glared at her; his glare had obviously lost any ability to affect her sometime ago, though, and she only smiled more widely. He gave up and smiled ruefully.

Hermione took the hint, though, and turned their attention to something else. "So, where's Pinale?"

Snape took a deep breath, giving himself time to order his thoughts; they were still jumbled from the bursts of adrenaline, from the fight and Hermione's reaction to his reappearance. Finally he began to tell her what had happened after he had run after her attacker.

****

The later afternoon sun had turned the Oxford sandstone to a molten gold by the time they had finished talking over Pinale's death and its implications. Snape thought the few acolytes that Pinale had gathered would be easily rounded up; Hermione tended to agree, although it would take a while for her to lose the tendency to startle whenever approached by someone she didn't know.

Hermione was relaxed by sunlight and the lifting of the tension of the last few weeks, both in respect of Pinale and Snape. His leg was pressed against hers as they sat on the bench and talked; she had been aware of the flexing of his thigh when he spoke, as though the fight with Pinale still twitched through him. Her leg was warm where it touched his and, as their conversation wound down, Hermione became increasingly aware of Snape again. His earlier reaction to their kiss have been intensely arousing - and satisfying, answering almost all her questions over how he thought of her - and she wanted more. First, though, they needed to find somewhere else; this garden was secluded but not quite enough for the discussion - and more - that they needed.

Hermione wasn't aware of moving but, when Snape suddenly stood up, supposed she must have tensed or shifted somehow. He folded his jacket over his arm and held out his other hand to her.

"Let's go," he said abruptly and she let him pull her up from the bench; she was surprised when he kept hold of her hand as they walked down the High towards the cobbled alleyway in which they usually apparated to and from the university. Snape stopped just as they ducked into the shadows there and kissed her quickly, a brush of his mouth against hers.

"There's something I need to do," he said. "Go on, I'll be at your flat in a few minutes."

Hermione looked at him; Snape seemed to be anticipating something, as though he had a secret he was about to share with her. He looked suddenly young and rather adorable, and she reluctantly nodded. Another swift kiss, then she watched him as he strode back down the High. As he vanished into the crowds of tourists she turned slowly and moved further into the shadows where she, literally, vanished.

Five minutes later she heard his knock at the door of her flat; the room was warm, as she'd kept her mind occupied by lighting a fire and setting the kettle to boil. Snape was staring at the floor when she checked the security lens out of habit.

She opened the door, curiosity surging again. Snape entered, a hand behind his back. Hermione looked at him quizzically, determined not to give in and ask him what he had done in Oxford. He smiled, obviously aware of that determination. She pursed her mouth and waited impatiently; she was rewarded with his rare laughter.

“Doctor Granger, you have no patience at all, do you?"

Hermione dissolved into laughter herself; his was infectious, all the more so for it so seldom being allowed to surface, and his mock reproof was all it took to release the tension she had tried not to allow to build.

"No, I don't, and well you know it. That ... blasted Stone doesn't help build patience either," she muttered, still laughing.

"I refuse to think about the Stone tonight," replied Snape. "We've spent entirely too long picking over texts and scraps of information, and we'll continue to do so, but not now." He drew his hand from behind his back at last, and Hermione grinned.

"I'll switch the kettle off, then, shall I?" she asked.

"That depends on whether you would rather have tea or this," replied Snape, placing the bottle of champagne on the worksurface.

"Mmm ... tough choice," said Hermione, pretending to think it over. Judging from Snape's amusement, her pretence wasn't particularly effective. "Celebrate the end of Pinale's interference in my life with tea or champagne ... well ... since you twisted my arm, I'll go with the champagne."

Snape had quietened as she spoke. "I had hoped ..." he stopped and started again. "I had hoped that we would celebrate more than just Pinale's defeat." He drew a breath. "Or have I mis-read your reaction to my - ah - reappearance afterwards?" Hermione shook her head, taking the two steps needed to reach him even before he'd finished speaking.

"No; no, no, no, you've misread nothing," she insisted, reaching to kiss him just as she had done earlier in the garden. "Nothing ... nothing ... nothing ..." Each word was punctuated with another kiss until he relaxed against her; he rested his forehead against hers.

"I think I've understood now, Hermione," he said wryly. "Don't worry, my ego is not quite as fragile as all that," he added, "I just prefer that there is no misunderstanding between us just now. You do know," he hesitated, "you do know that I am rather set in my ways; no-one could ever accuse me of being pleasant or easy to live with. I get foul moods, I can forget days in research, I hate dealing with company. If we go on with this now, there will be no way back." 

The room was still when he finished speaking; Hermione thought they both held their breath as she did him the justice of weighing the truth of what he had said against her own feelings and inclinations. There was nothing in his speech that she had not considered before, though, and in the end she simply kissed him and let the fusion of her mouth and his answer for her.


	7. Gold

_Gold, the Sun, is the culmination of the work. After the ascent of the 'lesser work' and the initial descent of the 'greater work', this is the centring fulfilment of both. It is the culmination of the red process, achieving perfection as the body and spirit fully unite and change each other reciprocally, mingling together such that they can never again be separated. Perfect harmony is achieved in the dissolution of the body and the fixation of the spirit._

* * *

The rest of the evening followed in a soft-focus haze of champagne and giddy euphoria; no more misunderstandings and a mixture of talk and silence. Eventually, as the champagne was finished and their glasses stood empty on the table between the sofas, Snape stretched and yawned; several joints protested the movement with loud cracks and Hermione had had just enough champagne to giggle at the noise. She abruptly put her hand to her mouth, eyes wide.

"I never giggle!" she protested. Snape just raised an eyebrow.

"Well, if these are the depths to which I have brought you, it's definitely time I should be going." 

Hermione wondered whether she should ask him to stay; she didn't want the evening to end just yet and, as he stood, summoned up her courage to ask. At worst, after their conversations this evening, she was sure he would only ask to postpone that particular pleasure until they were both less tired.

“Will you stay?”

Snape stood still, looking carefully at her after her hesitant question. Hermione refused to look away, although she could not read anything in his expression. Eventually a ghost of a smile crossed his face.

"I would rather not be alone tonight either, Hermione. Lead on," he said, offering a hand to pull her up from the sofa. 

They crossed the room, leaving the fire in the grate glowing red in the darkness of the room as Hermione extinguished the lights, and descended the staircase that curled downwards into a barely lit room. It held only a bed and a bookcase; an unlit fireplace faced the bed. At the far end of the room a series of doors suggested cupboards and other rooms lay beyond. Hermione automatically raised her hand to flick the light switch beside the stairs; Snape caught her hand to stop her. 

"No," he said. "Leave it like this; it's ... calm." In the shadows his face was all angles, suddenly unfamiliar, and Hermione swallowed. Not fear, not even uncertainty, but the comfortable awareness between them had spiked and twisted now in the pit of her stomach.

Snape looked at her, eyes hooded and shadowed, then placed a kiss on her wrist. The touch of his mouth abruptly soothed the tension within her, his lips warm and pliant against her skin. Another kiss on her palm. 

"We both need to sleep," he murmured then, whispering against her skin. "Shall we leave anything else for a time when we're both ... better able to enjoy it?"

Hermione could feel the tension in him: what was the right answer? She thought for a moment and then, too tired all of a sudden to second-guess him, just nodded. Today had been long, a jumble of extremes of emotion; it took little empathy to realise that Snape must have been through the same, or similar, rollercoaster. Her nod seemed to be the right answer; he let out a breath she hadn't been aware he was holding and a crooked smile lit his face.

"Thank you; today has been difficult enough without adding performance anxiety to it," he said drily. Hermione felt the awkward tension between them snap and she laughed at his characteristic drawl as she slid her arms around him, tucking her head against his shoulder.

"That would be hardly fair," she agreed. Snape's arms enfolded her to him, and she felt him brush a kiss across her hair.  
They stood like that, held to each other, for long moments until Hermione eased back in Snape's embrace and looked up at him. His face was still in shadows, but his scent and the feel of him against her gave her back the familiarity she had briefly lost. "Bed?" she suggested. He nodded and they separately reluctantly.

Undressing for bed was an interesting experience, baiting each other in the safety of tiredness. Hermione cast surreptitious looks at Snape as he shrugged the sweater over his head; then realised he was doing the same as she unbuttoned the shirt she wore. She lost awareness of his interest in her, though, as her mouth became suddenly dry at the sight of Snape unbuttoning the fly of his jeans. 

He looked stronger than she might have expected, although he was certainly as lean as she had anticipated in the moments when she had allowed herself to daydream of him. The muscles in his arms and torso shifted as he lowered the denim, bending slowly at the waist to push the material down. Her hands stilled on her own clothes as Snape kicked the material away, and she realised as he straightened up that he had discarded any underwear with the jeans. He was ... ohhh. 

Hermione eventually looked up to find him watching her with an amused expression, his arms folded across his chest as he waited for her to deal with the sight of him.

"Do you usually sleep fully-clothed?" he asked, his voice as amused as his expression and with a tinge of something that Hermione would have sworn was pride at his effect on her. 

She almost blushed and continued unbuttoning her shirt, hastily at first and then more slowly, deliberately, as she saw Snape's attention focus on her hands. The sense of power was rather heady, particularly as she became fully aware of his obvious appreciation of her.

She pushed the shirt carefully off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor behind her; a swift flick had her bra open, and she peeled it from her skin an inch at a time, watching Snape's reaction and measuring the effect of each movement. He took a shaky breath as she let the scraps of lace fall to the floor onto her shirt, and Hermione simply undid her own jeans before pushing them down to the rest of her clothes. This mutual teasing was wonderful, but she really did need to sleep and, if Snape reacted any more forcefully to her, that sleep was going to be a long way off.

Snape caught her gaze again once Hermione was as undressed as he and nodded, as though aware of why she had toned down her show for him at the end. Hermione turned away to reach for the t-shirt she usually slept in, tucked under the duvet on the bed. She had barely picked it up when Snape pulled it from her hands and tossed it to the floor.

"I thought ..." she started to speak.

"Just sleep now; but I would rather feel you next to me, not a handful of cotton," Snape offered as an explanation. Hermione eyed him, not entirely confident that the pair of them naked in a bed would be wholly conducive to sleep. In the end, he simply held out his hand. When she took it he tugged her gently towards the bed, throwing back the duvet with his other hand.

Hermione stood at the right-hand side of the bed, watching Snape walk round to the other side and trying not to stare at the shadows shifting across his skin as he walked. She shook her head to bring herself out of another series of unformed but erotic thoughts and slipped into bed, pulling the duvet up over her. She turned onto her side, propped up on her elbow, and watched Snape get into bed. He tucked an arm under her shoulder and pulled her towards him so that she half-fell onto his chest; his arms slid around her.

"Sleep," he said, more of a command than anything else. Hermione smiled and settled against him, curling her leg over his so that her thigh brushed his erection. Snape inhaled sharply, then repeated the command as he exhaled. He didn't move her leg.

****

Hermione woke a few hours later, surprised to have gone to sleep so quickly. She was still pillowed on Snape; she raised herself cautiously to look at him, one hand supporting her on his chest. 

He was asleep, the harsh angles of his face softened in the relaxation of his dreams and the strong moonlight that eased through the window. He looked younger now, and Hermione felt a wash of affection flood through her to temper the arousal she had woken with. His heart beat strongly under her fingers and she shivered when she remembered the terror when she had thought him dead not so very many hours ago. Not to have known this - not to have anticipated tomorrow - would have been more than she could have dealt with, she thought sleepily. 

The next time she awoke, Snape was tracing her features with his fingers; the featherlight touch was not enough to have woken her, but the sunlight now streaming into the room was certainly enough to pull her from dreams.

****

Snape had woken, as usual, with the sun creeping into the room. The night had long since gone, he thought as he opened his eyes; the angle of the window was such that it was almost certainly mid-morning at least. Nestled against him was Hermione, an armful of warm scents and soft skin. She was still asleep, and he shifted just enough on the pillow to be able to look at her without straining his neck. 

Her leg was still thrown over his, and he was fully aware of his reaction to her: his arousal, full and slightly aching, was pushing against her thigh. Snape debated moving, then decided against it. He wasn't particularly uncomfortable, and Hermione looked too comfortable to move. He ghosted a slow, careful, kiss on her forehead and then, unable to stop touching her, traced the line of her nose with his fingers. His thumb outlined her mouth, dipping in as she parted her lips; she stirred and her eyes opened.

"Good morning," said Snape. He watched Hermione blink at him and become aware of where she was; he become once more fiercely aware of his erection as heat flared in her eyes.

"Good morning," she replied, her voice gravelled with sleep. The sound sent shivers through him and his arms tightened around her. He bent to kiss her properly, his mouth brushing hers. Hermione made an inarticulate sound as she returned the kiss, then pulled away.

"Back in a minute," she promised as she got out of the bed. For a moment Snape thought she would give in to modesty and put on her t-shirt to head for, presumably, the bathroom but after a quick hesitation and a look round at him, she obviously decided not to bother. There was a subtle swagger to her movements as she headed for the row of doors in the far wall that was entirely too seductive for Snape's comfort.

She wasn't the only one who could entertain herself with piquing the other's arousal, he thought; shortly afterwards, as Hermione came back into the room, he stood and headed in her direction. 

As he passed her on the way to the bathroom - at least, he hoped the room she had been in was the bathroom - he brushed against her. Just a touch of his hand against hers, but she shuddered all the same. Snape barely held his own shudder in check.

The more pressing needs dealt with, and a discreet charm applied to protect Hermione, he retraced his steps. She was sitting on the bed, leaning against the pillows which she had propped up against the wall behind her. A slight blush stained her face as Snape leant against the doorway into the bathroom and looked at her; the renewed pressure of his arousal was, he suspected, both the cause and the result of the blush. As he let himself look away from her eyes, to take in the curves of her body as she shifted on the bed, Snape felt the pressure become more acute. Hermione's eyes widened and that was more than enough invitation.

He walked across the room, holding her gaze, and sat on the edge of the bed next to her; he lifted one hand to cup the back of her head and drew her forward to meet her mouth with his. The kiss was long and drugging, pushing and feeding the arousal that flared through him. The quickening heartbeat under his hand as his fingers caressed and smoothed over her breast told its own story. 

Snape let his hand slid from the nape of Hermione's neck, tracing the line of her shoulder and arm, his fingers finally entwining with hers. He drew away just enough to raise their linked hands and kiss her fingers, one at a time. As he kissed her thumb, Hermione moved it just enough to slide it into his mouth; she tasted salt and sweet, sleep-warm and tempting. He suckled, grazing her nail with his teeth until she hissed with a sharp inhalation. Her other hand suddenly gripped his thigh as he tugged slowly until her thumb slid from his mouth. The grasp on his leg turned into a caress as Hermione relaxed and started to explore, smoothing her palm over his skin and trailed her fingers along the crease where his thigh and hip met. Snape found himself holding his breath, unable to move as Hermione brushed the backs of her fingers against the hair between his legs.

"It's soft," she murmured.

"Oh no it bloody isn't," he growled. Hermione grinned.

"Oh yes it is," she teased as she threaded her fingers through the curls before curling her hand around the base of his - achingly hard - erection. "This, I'll agree, is not soft though ..." 

She let her voice trail off but, in any case, Snape could barely hear for the rushing in his ears. All his awareness contracted to the touch of her hand on him, cool against the heat that pulsed there and pale against the florid red of blood-engorged arousal; still holding her other hand, he tightened his fingers around hers and let his head drop back in submission to her touch.

He fell backwards onto the bed at the sudden touch of her lips on him; the silk of her mouth brought him to unexpected orgasm with a shout of her name. A fleeting blackness, then he looked up to find Hermione smiling gleefully, her tongue flicking across her lower lip as she leaned over him to kiss him. He tasted himself on her lips, on her tongue, as she swept the kiss into his mouth. A small, talented hand was stroking him still, carefully avoiding the now overly sensitive tip but coaxing him into a renewed erection.

He must have looked glazed because, when Hermione lifted her head from the kiss, she laughed softly. "Not expecting this?" she asked, squeezing softly. He shook his head. "I think you were this way," she traced a finger along the length of his erection, "all night. I'm not surprised ..."

Her words were cut off abruptly as Snape rolled her over and pushed her hands above her head, holding them in place with one of his hands. The other skimmed down over her body, outlining her nipples; he paused to revel in the firm peaks brushing against the palm of his hand, and experimentally kneaded her left breast as he lowered his head to lap his tongue against the other. Skin so soft; slightly salty, with the sheen of her arousal, and oh ... so responsive to his touch. 

He trailed his fingers still further down, dipping a thumb into her navel and smiling with delight as he pulled her nipple into his mouth, suckling it in and rubbing his tongue roughly over the peak. Hermione shifted restlessly under his touch and he felt himself swell and tighten again at her low moan of his name.

His hand now rested on the bed of curls between her legs; Hermione shifted again, opening to him and muttering "please" rather incoherently. He wasn't in the mood to tease too much - he wanted this as much as she did - and slid two fingers along the slick wet folds between her legs. His thumb rubbed gently at the nub just inside the folds, increasing the pressure as Hermione moaned; she gasped as he slid one long finger in between the folds, easing past her swollen labia and finally slipping with ease into her.

He withdrew from her then added a second finger as he set up a rhythm, alternating each thrust of his hand with a hard suckle on her breast. He made sure his palm rubbed over the nub as he slid his fingers in and out. Hermione was shortly gasping and moaning, then pulling at the hand that still held hers above her head. Snape let go and gasped himself as one of Hermione's hands went to her breast. He raised his head to watch her pinch and rub the nipple to a hardness that must have been painful; he looked up at her face, flushed and shining. She had her lower lip between her teeth, concentrating on his touch and her own with her eyes shut. She must have felt him watching her, because she abruptly opened her eyes.

"I - uh - I needed some balance ... too much ..." she said, brokenly. Snape wasn't sure he was any more capable of lucid speech; then he was certain of it when Hermione spread her legs wider still and slid one between his legs to press her thigh against his erection. She flexed her leg just enough to push up against him, using the same rhythm he had kept up within her with his fingers.

Hermione's free hand slid between Snape and the bed, and tugged him down onto her. She rolled towards him, easing her leg over his so that they lay almost side by side, pressed close together. Snape tensed further at the feeling of her heat against him then, at her urging, eased up and over her. Hermione fell back onto the bed, her legs now splayed on either side of his hips and her pelvis pushing up hard against his. 

Her head tossed restlessly on the pillows, and Snape saw her eyes glitter with heat. A heat he knew perfectly well was reflected in his as he called on the self-discipline that had seen him through hell to help him in this heaven.

He settled now against Hermione, some of his weight pushing her down into the bed, stilling her hips, whilst the rest was supported on his elbows, on either side of her. Hermione raised her arms, snaking them through his to clasp her hands at the back of his neck and pull him down into another time-stopping kiss.

Once Snape had become aware again of something other than Hermione's taste and scent he found himself pressed against her, his erection sliding more lazily than he would have thought possible along the wet length of her folds, the tip just parting the folds and pushing against her nub as he did so. The damp heat was unbearably seductive; Snape concentrated on watching Hermione's reaction as he eased up just enough to change the angle. She moved with him, holding him just at the point at which he would enter her, then nodded as he watched her. "Now," she whispered.

Fighting to keep his eyes open, Snape pushed slowly - very slowly - into her. Just the tip at first, almost too sensitive again now, slipping into the slick heat. He held there briefly, savouring the first sensation of being a part of her; Hermione had other ideas and pushed up against him, taking him further in. A mumbled protest of "more" brought a heated smile to his face; he dipped down to kiss her, sliding his tongue over her teeth and into the taste of her mouth just as he finally slid all the way into her. A stroke of his tongue punctuated the gentle pressure of his balls against her ass when he held against her, buried inside her. 

The urge to push into her, thrusting hard, was unbearable. When Hermione bucked against him, her vagina massaging him as her muscles flexed in waves with an approaching climax, he lost all grip on self-control; he withdrew abruptly, almost pulling entirely out of her, then thrust into her with a sharp stroke. 

That one push was enough to send Hermione into orgasm, screaming his name as he'd shouted hers earlier. A couple of quick, hard thrusts sent him with her as she gripped him. Snape felt the pressure build to the point where he thought he would black out; Hermione arched under him, infinitely beautiful at the moment of climax, panting and shuddering against him. The release was a moment of bliss, emptying into her against her cervix.

Hot and slick together, they lay tangled in each other now on the bed. Snape was the first to move; Hermione was sprawled beneath him in an exhausted abandon, with a smile on her face that he felt absurdly proud of. He kissed her, tiny feather-light kisses that covered her face, leaving the taste and scent of her flushed skin on his lips. Hermione closed her eyes, a quick shiver rippling through her. Snape rolled over onto his side, bringing her with him, and pulled the duvet over them both.

****

An owl fluttered against the window to Hermione's left later that day. The beating wings against the glass distracted her from the translation of Paracelsus that she was trying to compare with the oldest text she had been able to find so far; there was something about the French translation that seemed odd, and she had pulled the older text from the Internet to try to check - with a Latin dictionary - whether the confusion was in the original or simply the result of a lazy translator. Anything that would give them some clues at this stage would be welcome.

Hermione looked over her shoulder, but Snape was busy in the kitchen; she suspected that asking him to come and deal with the owl, when it was only a few feet from her desk, would result only in a sarcastic comment. Not entirely unreasonably, she thought, although she was loathe to interrupt her own work any further.

Standing up she stretched, yawning. She had been sat at the desk for - she glanced at her watch - two hours, barely moving. Muscles protested, then protested again as she stretched to unfasten the window catch and heave up the lower sash window. 

The owl flew into the room and perched on the back of her chair, neatly dropping a letter onto the desk. Hermione looked at the owl; it had a Hogwarts band on its leg and the letter carried a Hogwarts seal. She opened a drawer of the desk, looking for the box of cereal that she kept in there to feed the owls that occasionally arrived. She had discovered once at school, during breakfast, that owls seemed to have a penchant for granola. Handing the owl a few nuggets of grains, she picked up the letter and broke the seal by sliding a fingernail along the envelope closure. The owl picked up the treat, took off and wheeled once around the room before leaving through the open window.

Snape had turned to watch the owl circle the room, and Hermione glanced round to see him watch her expectantly as she unfolded the letter. She scanned its contents, blinked, and re-read the short message more closely, then read it aloud.

"Hermione and Severus," read the letter, "I believe congratulations are in order." She heard Snape mutter “Minerva”, and something that sounded suspiciously as though he was casting aspersions upon the Headmistress’ parentage. 

She continued, smiling at Snape's reaction, "I have, as you requested, been monitoring the progress of your experiment here at Hogwarts; I am very pleased to be able to tell you that, at some point this morning, you achieved all that you set out to do." 

Hermione looked up from the letter, surprising a look of astonishment on Snape's face, before finishing the letter. "I believe I will see you here shortly, as a result. I find that I look forward to that very much. Regards, Minerva McGonagall.”

Snape seemed faintly speechless. Hermione smiled, her mind considering several possibilities to explain the sudden success; she discarded all but one. 

"Well, it looks as though we have achieved the necessary state of mind and soul for the Stone to emerge," she said in the end. Snape looked at her and she saw the realisation appear from confusion. He nodded. She suspected he had worked out the implications immediately, but refused to acknowledge them until she did.

"I certainly have," he admitted. Hermione wondered whether she could tease him by simply agreeing. A moment's reflection suggested that this, right now, was not something about which he should be teased. One of them had to be the first to say what they both now knew.

"I love you."

Easily said in the end; weeks if not months of practice in her mind made it so. Hermione found herself caught up in a tight embrace, although she hadn't been aware of Snape crossing the room to her. He had buried his face in her hair, holding her closely to him, and murmured almost incoherently; he was just audible enough, though, for her to understand the repeated words. "Love. My love." She lifted her head, meeting his mouth in a kiss that celebrated all their achievements.

****

Hermione was in a rush to leave, to check the laboratory in Oxford before they went to Hogwarts; Snape had other ideas. He found himself suggesting that they eat before they headed out of the flat. Practicality forced its way through his own euphoria, subtly expressed though that was, and he was aware that Hermione hadn't eaten properly for at least a day.

Eventually he managed to get her to sit down and eat some pasta. It had been quickly made, with a prepared sauce he had found hiding in the fridge. He didn't think it was too far past its sell-by date. 

Conversation over lunch was sporadic; Snape was still absorbing the reality of their situation. Hermione was simply enjoying that reality, and in too much hurry to get on to do anything but eat. Eventually they left, with Hermione promising that they would get some chocolate in college before they went on to Hogwarts. 

They apparated into the alleyway and ducked through the quadrangles of Oriel to reach the entrance to Amergin, shimmering quietly on the High in full uncomprehending view of the tourists.

A few rapid paces brought them to the laboratory, where Hermione unlocked the door and the wards. Snape waved her in ahead of him; his manners were never forgotten, simply occasionally ignored, but this was her project and her expertise. He would not ignore manners for Hermione in any case.

The glass sat on the bench at the other end of the room, lit by a shaft of light that fell through the bars on the windows. It was still cushioned in the fire which licked lazily around the glass. Inside the glass ... inside the glass, even from here, Snape could see a brilliant red stone. _Lacque_ , he thought irrelevantly. Hermione reached the glass and lifted it carefully, holding the contents to the light and apparently mesmerised by the light falling through the bottle. He followed her, stopping just behind her to put his hands on her shoulders.  
"Well done," he breathed, rubbing his thumb along her jaw. "How does it feel?"

"Like I haven't slept in weeks, but absolutely bubbling. I don't think it's all to do with the Stone though," she added as she turned in his arms. Snape smiled: her efforts to reassure him were sweet. He knew enough to know that she had to have received other offers; that she had refused them all and accepted his was enough to refute any uncertainties he might have. He dropped a kiss lightly on her mouth before holding his hand out to her.

"Howgarts?" he asked. Hermione nodded and took his hand; hand in hand they walked back through the college, the Stone hidden in Hermione's bag, until they reached their apparation alleyway.  
A blink of cold and they were at Hogwarts' gates, Hogsmeade a blur of evening blue behind them in the twilight. The gates swung open as they appeared; Snape tucked Hermione's arm under his and they headed up the path to the school, some way off in the distance. Leaves crunched underfoot, autumn turning now into winter, and the lake around which the path skirted was grey and whipped by the wind - or perhaps it was simply the squid being restless. Snape snorted with amusement. That was an unusually frivolous thought by anyone's standards, he considered.

They bypassed the main door, branching off towards the dungeon door that Snape preferred to use. If he appeared in the Entrance Hall with Hermione, his students would become unbearably curious; time enough for that when they had to put in an appearance at dinner.

The path was now mud under their feet and their boots were unpleasantly clinging, catching in the soft earth; once inside the castle walls they stamped their feet on the stone floors as the door swung silently closed behind them. Clods of mud flew from their boots until their feet felt considerably lighter. A little way on, through another set of doors, they reached Snape's rooms. Once past the wards and locks, Hermione immediately headed for the bookshelves, activating the mechanism that opened the door to the private laboratory. It was warm in there, the fire that that had kept the mixture at the correct temperature also heating the small space. The warmth was welcome against the chill of the day.

This time it was Snape that collected the glass with the Stone. As Minerva’s letter had indicated, it had indeed made the final transformation, glittering red in the transparent glass. Snape held the glass with awe, astonished that they had finally managed to achieve it even though he had seen the same in Oxford. He felt a subtle pull from the Stone, almost willing him to touch it. He glanced round at Hermione, who simply nodded and confirmed his suspicions.

"Yes, mine does that too: it feels like being an iron filing near a magnet, I think." Her analogy was whimsical but remarkably accurate, thought Snape.

"We should go to the Headmistress,” he said, holding carefully to the glass and contents.

He felt oddly lightheaded as they made their way through the castle. Hermione stumbled over a step all of a sudden, and he wondered whether she had felt the same thing. A short nod gave him his answer; it had something to do with the Stone.

The staircases were unusually cooperative and they reached the Headmistress’ office quickly. The password for the day took a little guesswork but, in the end, they found their way into the waiting room through _Edradour_. Snape looked quizzically at Hermione when she tried it; she simply shrugged her shoulders. "I'll explain later," she said. The staircase revolved them up the stairs and into the Headmistress’ working area. 

"Ah, Hermione, Severus. Come in, come in. It is a delight to see you both; you are well? Hermione, it is a pleasure to see you again. It has been some time, I believe, since you were last in this office?”

Snape saw Hermione nod her head with fervour. "Oh yes," she said. Their meetings with the Headmistress had been in his rooms in the dungeons and, if he remembered correctly, the last time Hermione had been this office had been for a minor infraction of rules - as usual, thanks to Potter and Weasley. It had been Snape that had caught them that time and hauled them off to Dumbledore. She took a quick sideways glance at him.

He whispered "you deserved it," and she grinned. He delighted in her smile, then shot her a quick grin of his before turning back to Minerva. The Headmistress had watched the exchange with an amused if austere affection on her face.

"Oh, I am pleased for you both. May I see the Stones?" she asked. 

Snape tipped his onto the desk, and Hermione rummaged in her bag before finding the glass and stone. She too tipped the stone onto the desk. McGonagall examined them carefully. “Do you know what you do with them now?”

This was the difficult part: neither Snape nor Hermione was entirely sure what was involved in order to be able to use the Stones in the way they wanted. The texts were silent on these powers, concentrating instead on the production of precious metals and the Elixir of Life. Snape had been doing extensive research on the topic; there was one common theme to the use of the Stone - contact. Each element to be projected, or converted, had to be in contact with the Stone in order to be changed.

"I suggest that we hold the Stone together,” he said. "The Stone should enable the projection into the quantum at that point."

Hermione looked dubious but asked which Stone they should use. Snape looked at each Stone. "Perhaps we each hold the one we created, then join hands," he suggested.

A quiet murmur came from Minerva. "I would recommend that you join hands first, then seize on the Stones together.”

Snape faced Hermione and held out his hand; she took it gravely, although with a glint in her eye that recalled him holding out his hand to her last night. He shook his head in mock reproof; she simply laughed and said “Later."

Once they had a firm hold of each other's wrist and hand, they turned to the desk and picked up the Stones at the same time. The subtle pull of the Stone intensified to the point where Snape felt as though it echoed in a migraine within his own skull; then, abruptly, the pressure and intensity eased and he opened his eyes. He hadn't been aware that he had shut them. In front of him, Hermione also opened her eyes.

They looked around themselves; to Snape it seemed that they were still in the Headmistress’ study, although the study had never looked like this. The colours were dazzling, shimmering at the edges, and something sang through the room - it could not be Fawkes, not now, but it was something not dissimilar to phoenix song. The answer came to him, unknown but always known; it was the sound of life. Hermione was staring about her; her thoughts as clear to him as his own. His awareness eased outwards, encompassing Hermione and enfolding the order of the universe. He could not begin to describe it, even to himself, and he simply let go, opening up to the experience.

****

Hermione looked at the intensity of the world around her, feeling it fill and expand through her. She was the world ... the world was her. She felt a moment's fear at the enormity of it and then calmed as she enfolded, and was enfolded by, a familiar touch. Snape. She could see him - and then see herself through him - and then was him; and herself. All points in all times in one point and one time. 

Snape steadied her, although she knew exactly how overwhelmed he was. The same thought echoed through both of them - to find Voldemort and leave. The human mind - even the more developed mind of a magician - was barely able to deal with what they felt, reduced to allegory as it was.

Hermione reached out, Snape reaching with her. They acted as one. They were one. All things were one; Hermione was fundamentally aware of the truth of the alchemical assertion that the entire universe was a single material. Within that unity lay the mind they sought; hidden within their own minds. 

For a moment, Hermione panicked with terror at the enormity of the task; they would search forever. She went blank, then smiled. Snape smiled with her. They knew where Voldemort was; in the same way that they knew how to breathe, how to make their hearts beat. The knowledge just was and together they neatly, tidily, released the energy that was Voldemort - briefly acknowledging the truth of Snape's fears. 

They had very nearly been too late; that which was Voldemort was almost as aware as they were. But still, he was not aware enough to hide from the pincers of their consciousness as they peeled apart the quanta that formed his soul and redistributed it, scattered throughout the universe in a random reassignment of spin and direction, unlinking the connected matter and dissolving it into the quantum foam of energy in which they moved.

Then, at last, they hesitated. Hermione looked at Snape and saw herself; Snape looked at Hermione and saw himself. For an eternal moment they were folded together, within each other in a merged consciousness which they savoured, knowing they would be left with nothing but a shadow of the memory. Then, before temptation could call them further down, they nodded and dissolved the Stones they carried, disassembling them quanta by quanta as they had done Voldemort. With the last dissolution, the last unchained spiral of energy, they found themselves again in the Headmistress’ study, in familiar surroundings and with the memory only of a universal understanding.

Hermione wasn't sure which of them moved first; the Headmistress was ignored, a spectator as Hermione and Snape fused again in a kiss that shook them both. They had played God and survived.

* * *

_Author's notes: This story has undoubtedly been influenced by things I have read over the years - at the very least, 'Gaudy Night' by Dorothy L Sayers and 'A Monstrous Regiment of Women' by Laurie R King. There are certainly other references, even if I can't immediately recall them! I should add that the St Giles’ Cafe in Oxford has changed somewhat since Hermione was a graduate student … it’s still good, but rather different. Thank you for reading._


End file.
